


Falling Leaves

by blondhandsomestranger



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: F/M, Fluff and Angst, Happy Ending, Hermione Granger-centric, Hogwarts has a magical garden, Remus Lupin Lives, Remus Lupin Needs a Hug, Time Travel
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-08-23
Updated: 2020-11-16
Packaged: 2021-03-06 20:34:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 12
Words: 34,468
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26065057
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blondhandsomestranger/pseuds/blondhandsomestranger
Summary: Searching for a quiet place to read as the halls of Hogwarts are filled with Durmstrang and Beauxbatons students - on top of the non-negligible Hogwarts contingent - Hermione stumbles into something altogether unexpected. And she doesn't find herself alone. Remus/Hermione, Time travel.
Relationships: Hermione Granger/Remus Lupin
Comments: 242
Kudos: 191





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [NiightKiitten17](https://archiveofourown.org/users/NiightKiitten17/gifts).



**Falling Leaves**

**Disclaimer:** All publicly recognizable characters, settings, etc. are the property of their respective owners. The original characters and plot are the property of the author. The author is in no way associated with the owners, creators, or producers of any media franchise. No copyright infringement is intended.

 **A/N:** This is terribly, awfully overdue, but happy birthday, NiightKiitten17! I hope you like it!

To those of you who have no idea what I'm talking about, this fic was meant to be published years ago (think 2017) as a birthday gift for NiightKiitten17, but I'm the slowest writer in the world so it's only coming now. I asked her for a prompt and she gave me an amazing one that is included in this chapter (it's the part in bold).

It'll be a short story–likely four chapters long–that will be updated every Sunday as I still have some things to iron out (as I said, slowest writer in the world).

This is my very first time-travel fic as well, so yay! (And for those of you who are wondering, I'm planning on updating Tie Your Heart soon, likely by the beginning of next month, so it's coming).

Enjoy the ride! Comments are very much appreciated, as usual :)

* * *

**He could smell it. The change in the air. Sure, others could feel the now slight chill in the evening air, see the leaves beginning to change around their edges... but he was the only one that could smell autumn coming. It caused his heart to quicken, his breathing to become ragged. Not because he longed for the cooler weather, the vibrant foliage... no... The sudden change in his physical being was because of her. Because autumn brought her, and it was her he longed for.**

It had started out as an accident. One of those rare occurrences in which being in a certain place and time incurred in unforeseen, staggering consequences.

But the reason it continued... well, that was another matter entirely, was it not?

* * *

Crisp, almost crackling air like the sea of coppery leaves awaited her beyond the castle's walls. It hissed against the concrete, wailing spirals mourning the lack of sun. But she faced the autumnal gales regardless, strands of her hair whipping against her face as the first drops of rain carried with the wind. She grasped the book in her arms harder, shoulders hunching over it, and picked up her pace. Hogwarts: A History once mentioned, in a minuscule printed footnote, a closed-off garden, buried underneath the castle somewhere in the West Wing, and if her calculations were correct the entrance would be right...

There.

Burgundy and yellow-colored vines crept up and around the door, leaving but a patch of dark wood visible. A beetle readjusted itself atop the foliage as Hermione pushed the blanketed plant away, just enough to find the door's handle set. Iron further chilled her fingers when she grasped and twisted it, pushing as thicker raindrops caught in her robe and hair, and dribbled from the leaves onto her face. The door remained unmoved. Hermione hugged the book harder and, in a bout of Muggle instinct, rammed her shoulder into the wood.

There was a millimetric budge. She pushed the air off her lungs, readjusted the ivy again, and steeled herself for a second attempt.

As her left shoulder collided against the door, its hinges rattled and snapped. And Hermione's stomach hovered unhitched inside her as she traveled mid-air, falling along with the door as they hit the ground and slid over the three stone steps. Her body rolled beyond it, covering more inches over the stone floor until the hollow thud of her skull marked her entrance's finale.

"Merlin's bleeding pants! Are you alright?" The half curse, half question echoed through the walls of both the room and her brain.

She never answered. Acute pain irradiated on one side of her forehead – from her hairline down to the bone ridge beneath her eyebrow, where it proceeded to make its exceedingly low opinion of her plan known. And before she knew it she was moving again as strong, hot hands pulled her from the ground into a sitting position. In less time than she could properly count, she was stripped of her damp robe and enveloped with another, a much larger one still retaining its warmth.

A mix of herbal and floral scents invaded her nostrils as she drew in a short breath. There was _indeed_ a garden. But someone else had already found it and she had just made an utter fool of herself before whoever it was by landing headfirst into it. As if people didn't tease her enough for several other reasons.

When her vision settled, it did so on a rather familiar face, framed by dirty blond hair and the faintest trace of equally colored stubble. Hermione blinked. The eyes... a ring of sand trapped by a sea of green stared straight into her soul, an unusual combination she had seen in one person only. But everything else about him was wrong. He was too young, his face unmarred by scars, shoulders unburdened by grief and war. He was handsome. Entrancing, even.

Perhaps her brain was far more addled by her fall than she had imagined.

She led a hand to her forehead, whether to assess the damage or check for a fever she wasn't quite sure. It slid with much too ease, her fingertips left with a slick, wet sensation even though the skin they touched shot needles of pain through her nerve-endings. She broke her gaze with the familiarly strange – or strangely familiar? She didn't rightly know at this point – boy and lowered her hand. The inspection of her fingertips drew a second set of eyes.

"You're bleeding. I'll take you to Madam Pomfrey right away."

Fairly muscular arms were already supporting her back and the underside of her knees when she spoke, "Don't."

The boy froze, his breath now the only thing brushing against her skin. She couldn't recall a reasonable explanation, but something about his instant rigidness made her regret her harsh denial. At such a close distance, the unmistakable scent of chocolate mint mingled with a much-too-aloof-not-to-be-hurt tone when the boy spoke - proof enough for her brain, in its current state, to confirm her suspicions, "I was trying to help. You need mediwitching care."

"I'm afraid I'll need something far stronger," she caught his gaze once again, "Because I know _you_ , Remus J. Lupin."

The next thing she knew, her eyes had slid closed.

* * *

Before the girl collapsed, Remus' arm was once again at her back. He cushioned her head with his hand, her wild hair soft against his palm as he gently lowered her to the ground. He took in her injuries-her clothes had kept her from more harm, but it didn't take specialized knowledge of healing to gather that a head injury coupled with loss of consciousness was worrisome. Remus searched the ground around them as if guidance would pop up from their surroundings, but there were just her book – which seemed to be in even poorer condition than its owner, what, with its tousled pages and broken spine – and the garden itself.

Remus grabbed the robe he'd divested her of and checked the embroidered crest.

Gryffindor.

And yet he didn't recognize her. She wasn't new, no one older than eleven-year-olds had been submitted to the Sorting Ceremony this year. Although he couldn't claim to be close to every member of his House, certainly he would have remembered her? They seemed close enough in age for their paths to have crossed at some point. Either from passing each other in the Common Room or watching a Quidditch game, perhaps, not to mention the Library. It was the first week of school, for Merlin's sake, and the witch was already reading _Numerical Charts and Probability: A Progressive Approach_. It was far from being considered light reading- the content too advanced, even for O.W.L.-level, and the reason he knew this was because the volume had made it onto his reading list as well. The most bizarre reason not to let her die popped into his mind: she was bound to be intelligent- the conversations the two of them could have...

He shook his head. Was he going bonkers?

He had to act–fast–before he lost more of his faculties to mental haze or shock. He ought to gather her in his arms and carry her to the Hospital Wing, yet something about the way she had refused to be taken to the Infirmary had him hesitate. He couldn't leave her there – bloody and unconscious on the ground – but whatever fueled her reluctance to go to Madam Pomfrey could be justified. It had, after all, taken him a long time to overcome his fear of white, sterile rooms when all his memories of them were of excruciating pain- an agony he wouldn't understand came from the transformations instead of the mediwitching care until years later.

So he did the only thing that came to mind, "Amra, I need your help! Come, please!"

In a blink, a house-elf sprung into existence before him. She was wringing her hands in preparation to speak when her gray eyes grew even larger than normal at the sight of the girl.

"Master Lupin killed a missy," The elf flattened her little ears, swiveling her head around as if startled by her own words. Before he could react to it, slim fingers had closed around the girl's ankle. "Amra hides the body."

"No! Amra, she's not dead. And I didn't hurt her."

The little elf let out a huge breath, causing her body to appear smaller still, and dropped the girl's ankle unceremoniously. Remus flinched at the possible addition to her already considerable wounds. "Ooh, Amra's glad, young master, that I haven'ts to hide her then, no."

The young wizard led two fingers to his temple, "Could you just… get me a healing potion from Madam Pomfrey's stock, please, Amra?"

The elf was gone and back in seconds, half a dozen vials in her arms as she returned. "Here you are, Master Lupin," she deposited her findings on the softer, grass-covered ground of the garden, sparing the unconscious girl another glance before turning back to him. "If a person asks, Amra says there's NO dead missy in the gardens."

"Thank you."

Remus stared at the place the small elf had just disappeared from. A huff escaped his lips. How she had kept his lycanthropy secret all these years, it was anyone's guess.

Once he had gently doctored the girl's forehead using the appropriate potion – being a werewolf had its advantages when it came to properly identifying them, even if it made brewing itself unbearable – her last sentence before passing out started ringing in his mind.

 _Because I know_ you _, Remus J. Lupin..._


	2. Chapter 2

**Falling Leaves**

**Disclaimer:** All publicly recognizable characters, settings, etc. are the property of their respective owners. The original characters and plot are the property of the author. The author is in no way associated with the owners, creators, or producers of any media franchise. No copyright infringement is intended.

* * *

How in Circe's name had Remus managed to find himself in this situation?

He had gone to the garden to unwind. Pumpkins were exploding all over the castle, showering any hapless passerby in seedy, clumpy guts. The school term had barely begun, and Mr. Filch was already haunting the corridors–running to and from like a lizard on its hind legs–in an attempt to catch one of the students in the act. It had been Sirius' idea, a warm-up for what was to come.

A twinge of guilt sometimes warred with Remus' actual enjoyment of their more creative plans, more so whenever Professor McGonagall cast disapproving looks in their direction. Their Head of House always knew how to identify which pranks her cubs had pulled, pursed lips and a look over her spectacles conveying her displeasure from afar.

This time, some Gryffindors hadn't taken kindly to it either – Lily, in particular, had her clothes covered in orange goo as the boys were first testing it out earlier, and matters were made worse when James told her it complimented her ginger hair.

As Sirius and Peter dragged a dejected James to the Quidditch pitch, Remus mumbled an excuse and made his way to the West Wing, towards the silent haven he had yet to share with the others, dreading it wouldn't be quite so silent if he did.

A few moments of peace, and then more trouble had barreled its way in. Remus stalked through the garden now, never going beyond the pink chrysanthemums and circling back again whenever he reached the round patches of thyme. Fresh, earthy, and sweet scents grated his senses with each step, hindering somewhat his ability to think. It had been thirty minutes since the witch passed out cold before him. He had made the unknown fellow Gryffindor as comfortable as he could, casting a warming spell on the stone floor to counter the cold and folding his wool scarf underneath her head. As time passed and she remained unconscious, the belief that she needed proper care urged him.

He had glanced at the open doorway time and again, both hoping and worrying that someone would appear. The arrival of a teacher–or even Mr. Filch–would mean she would be taken to the Hospital Wing immediately, thus taking the decision of disregarding her personal wishes from Remus. On the other hand, Amra had, for all her willingness to help, thought he had killed the girl, so who knew what conclusions someone else would reach? Saying that she had fallen in, taking a massive door along for the ride, and spoken just enough to claim to know him and refuse help seemed too surreal an explanation even to himself, who had witnessed it. Nonetheless, no one came. Remus considered calling his friends, but the ensuing ruckus and teasing to which they would subject him afterward far outweighed the prospect of not having to justify himself. That, after all, was the nature of their friendship: the truest, most loyal friends in times of need, and the most exasperating individuals when not.

"Of course you know me," He spoke to the garden at large and pinched the bridge of his nose as self-deprecating mockery bled into his voice, "I'm a Marauder, we're a famous lot."

"You’re not,” His head snapped back towards the place he had left her, startled at the sound of her voice. From her half-propped up position on the floor, chocolate-brown eyes stared straight at him. Her gaze seemed more focused than before, and the Dittany had done its job – no new blood oozed from the gash on her forehead. The pallor of her skin, however, remained. “Famous, that is. Not when I'm from."

"Well... that's just--" Remus stopped. "Did you just say _when_?"

A faint smile graced her lips. "Did I?"

Her non-answer mystified him further. Who was she? Or, far more importantly, should he worry about a concussion?

She struggled to lift herself up, and Remus crossed the distance between them and offered her his hand, only to recall she hadn't seemed keen on having him touch her.

It rooted him to the spot. A dull feeling spread from his fingers towards his arms. Obliviousness didn't suit him: Moony was not a nickname to reflect his absent-mindedness. Like pieces of a puzzle, her earlier words fell into place and nausea swirled in his stomach. The girl had been specific, too much so: _I know_ you _, Remus J. Lupin_. Not _I have heard about you_ , which would likely be the case for someone he had only just met. And, at his attempt to pick her up, she had uttered a clear-ringing _Don’t._ Well, since he was already at it, neither did _I'll_ _need something far stronger_ convey a fear of white, sterile rooms, now, did it? It had been naive of him to assume he could relate to her terror. If her words couldn't be attributed to the befuddlement of someone with a head injury, they could instead indicate a more sobering thought: that she knew him. Which made him the nightmare.

Opposing his lungs' inability to draw enough oxygen, Remus' heart raced to the point he could feel his vein pulsing below his clenched jaw, hear the fast, incessant drumming in his ears, and he racked his brain, trying to remember any neighboring children who could have found out about his curse. His parents had been wary and cautious as far as his earliest memories went, locking him in a dungeon once a month, restricting his interactions so that his presence wouldn’t be missed whenever the moon changed, his self-inflicted wounds wouldn’t be noticed. Muggles never suspected a thing, but a witch? Or, worse still, an entire magical family. On looks alone, he couldn't place the girl, but it wouldn’t be that surprising, would it? Secrets such as his tended to out, and he had managed three years learning the wondrousness of magic and belonging, living under the illusion of normality. Eventually, the farce would be put to an end.

And he would plead and beg and _grovel_ because what was the harm to anyone but himself to let him believe it a little longer?

His wand would be snapped. His registration, demanded. And Professor Dumbledore would be made to expel him.

A cool, small hand closed around his still outstretched one, cutting off his thoughts. Blood jump-started in his veins as if changing directions, and when he focused his gaze through the wetness in his eyes, he noticed that she wasn't even looking back at him. There was no challenge in her features, no unpleasant expression at all. She was staring at their joined hands, brows a bit furrowed as if it were something new. That was when it hit him: whatever she had meant, she didn’t know. Couldn't, even. She wouldn't be touching him otherwise, the thought itself was unthinkable. His friends had treated everything as an adventure, and he loved them for their easy acceptance, but women were far more sensible. He let go of her once she was seated and shrunk away. If the girl had felt the tremble of his hand as he had helped her, she kept it to herself. Though he wouldn't have noticed if she had called him out on it, his eyes already closed.

_In, one. Two. Three. Four…_

_Hold, one. Two. Three. Four…_

_Out, one. Two. Three. Four._

_That's it, sweetheart. Now again,_ his mum's soft tone chimed in his mind, and Remus tried to remember the weight of her arms around him when he was enveloped in her hug.

Nothing had changed: he was safe. His life at Hogwarts was safe.

So why the bleeding hell did his mind have to torture him?

* * *

Something was wrong. Hermione didn’t quite know what, however–the constant pulsing and throbbing in her head were unhelpful, to say the least, but having someone, who thus far had been friendly and considerate, recoil and turn away from you penetrated even the harshest migraine. Had she upset him? She could barely recall her words to determine one way or another, so she waited.

A beat.

Another.

_Okay, Hermione, dreadful plan._

His back remained turned, and Hermione surveyed her surroundings, searching for a topic. She didn’t know much about flowers. "I guess this place was closed off for a reason."

Closed off? Remus did raise his head at that, though he didn't face her. It wasn't advertised, certainly, but, ever since its creation a few years before, any student could come and go as they pleased. And earlier, if she hadn't meant she was someone from the past, _his_ past… No, he wouldn’t do it again. Whatever her real meaning was, he was horrible at interpreting it. "This place isn't. Believe me, I would know."

She was glad, really, that she managed to catch his attention. Except for the fact that attention meant talking, and talking implied thinking, and silence both mental and actual would've been welcome at the moment. "I suppose it will be after this. Sending people back in time makes for a quite reasonable motive."

His posture stiffened. Remus shifted his head to the side, chin lowered. Now that he was searching for it, the clothing she wore underneath his robe–which had him both blushing and wanting to purr like a cat lying in the sun–was rather odd. Not that he was all that familiar with female fashion, but none of his few female friends wore trousers quite so tight. Yet, from what he'd seen, there was no time-turner hanging around her neck. And clothing could be altered, after all, perhaps even be from a different country altogether. A concussion seemed more logical. That, or… A sliver of suspicion crept into his mind. Enlisting the help of an unknown girl was perhaps a step too far, even for Sirius and James. On top of that, sending her tumbling down the stairs certainly wasn't their style, though it could have been an unfortunate accident. No, their pranks tended to target Slytherins, not their own friends, unless an all-out war had been declared. That is, assuming they were involved at all – the Marauders weren't the only ones up to mischief. Curiosity lit him up like a Lumos spell. Perhaps, if it was indeed a prank, he should entertain it. Remus knew more about Time Travel than the average student, had read all about it once he came to Hogwarts. Given the chance, anyone who wished to change the past would have. He could catch her at it, how well-rehearsed could her tale be? "I suppose so. Would you mind enlightening me? When exactly _is_ your time?"

“It was September 5th, 1994 when I woke up this morning.”

Ah, yes. Too far into the future for it to be true. And far enough to justify her not knowing enough about his time to prove it. Convenient, yet ill-thought out. "And is there anything you can tell me? About your time or mine?"

"You mean, something to confirm I am, in fact, a time-traveler? I will try to think of something in a moment." Hermione could, in fact, think of several things. Somehow she didn't think the conversation would go well if she started with 'You're a werewolf'... Or even 'Your best friends are Animagi, and when magic itself reveals one as a rat, you should probably wonder why.' So she settled for, "Time-traveling is dangerous. If I were to tell you—"

"You could potentially disrupt your present, I'm aware."

"Of course you are." The same smile from before returned. It made her look lovely and smug all at once. It was, if he was honest, rather endearing. Even though she was lying to him.

"Not a single little thing? Other than knowing me, I mean."

"No. Except…” Oh, so he would know it would happen, but she couldn't see the harm in it. “There is going to be a Triwizard Tournament. That's why I'm here, really."

"A Triwizard Tournament?I thought they had been banned since—"

"1792, yes,” She held in a sigh. The distraction worked, though not for the reason she had expected. For Harry or Ron, the danger and excitement of the tournament would have caught their attention. As it had, she presumed. Hermione ought to have known that the history of it would be what did it for Remus. “It's barbaric if you ask me. But there it is."

"And you're here researching a task?"

"No, I'm not of age to join, not that I would care to if I were. It's barbaric, as I said. Eternal glory hardly seems like a good enough excuse to endanger someone's life. That the Ministry sanctioned it at all... Well, I came here because it's likely the only quiet place in the castle. There is twice the amount of students walking the halls, now."

"And you need silence to read Janet Boyman's book. I see. At least some things never change."

“No, they don’t,” She hissed as she felt a particularly strong twinge of pain. “I’m sorry, my head hurts and the flowery smell isn’t helping.”

He winced in sympathy, "Perhaps it would be best if we left?"

"Would you mind helping me up? I think my ankle is hurt as well.”

He was at her side in a second, “You should have said so earlier.”

“Oh, I’ll be fine. Madam Pomfrey will fix me in no time, she always does with Harry. But I do need to see Professor Dumbledore first, my lack of time-turner is more than a bit concerning.”

Remus frowned – it was unusual for someone pulling a prank to ask for the Headmaster. But she was in pain, and Remus should’ve known better than to assume the cut was her only injury, so he pushed any irrelevant thoughts aside. He helped her stand and climb up the steps, and, as soon as they crossed the now-doorless threshold, the girl vanished from under his fingertips.

* * *

Hermione didn't know whether she had just dreamt–or hallucinated–the whole thing. She had stumbled and caught herself on the wet stone wall–fingers tangling on the vines surrounding it – only later realizing the reason why: her handsome, warm, and rather cozy human crutch had disappeared. Which was only fair, considering her sanity had left her a while ago. She limped around, peering into the garden from the doorway. The fallen door remained on the ground as they'd left it, her book was nowhere to be seen, and she had to wonder if she even had it with her before in the first place.

She cast a _Reparo_ on the door, a _Ferula_ on her foot _,_ and made her way to the castle’s entrance, the rain and her injuries likely making even more of a fright out of her appearance than usual. The state of her hair alone...

If she blushed as she limped to the Infirmary, Hermione blamed it entirely on her head wound. She had tried so very hard to squash whatever crush she felt for Professor Lupin after the fiasco with Lockhart. As a matter of fact, she had quite deliberately convinced herself that the warm feeling she got whenever she was at a Defense Against the Dark Arts class the year before was due to excitement for the lesson. He was a talented and competent teacher. And the reason she figured out he was a werewolf had nothing to do with being attuned to his schedule even outside of classes or sneaking glances every meal to see if he was there. It was a genuine concern for a teacher, is all. And if the betrayal when she thought he was colluding with a criminal to kill her best friend stung deeper than it should have, it was because she admired him. Or so she had told herself. Apparently, her efforts were for naught if her subconscious had taken to conjure a more attainable version of the wizard.

It didn't change the fact, however, that the robe she wore was a good two sizes larger. But she wouldn't notice it until later when her head no longer hurt and she was ensconced in the girl's dorm room. She let out a gasp, choked, incredulous laughter escaping her chest. She had traveled back in time–years! not hours–with magic she couldn’t begin to understand and met a younger version of her former professor.

After that, and amidst Harry and Ron's idiotic behavior, Hermione found herself returning, nearly every day, to check the garden. Remus Lupin was never there.

Throughout that year, Hermione did not hear a word from her former professor. She had searched for any information on spontaneous time travel to no avail. Harry's letters to Snuffles continued, and she felt a herd of Cornish Pixies in her stomach whenever Harry mentioned their correspondence, waiting for some hint of Professor Lupin, but the feeling dwindled as they focused on the more pressing matters of Harry's champion tasks and the slanderous publications of Skeeter regarding Hermione.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey everyone, I come bearing another chapter :)
> 
> I just wanted to say thank you for the wonderful support you guys showed to the first chapter, it made me even more excited to work on this story! Also, remember when I said this would be about four chapters-long, tops? Well, I'm a lying liar who lies - it'll be more around ten, so please stick with me. I have some parts already written, but my muse showed up and said, "Huh, why don't you do this instead?" and it upended most of my earlier plans (but it does make things more interesting, so I'm not really upset). 
> 
> I hope you enjoy, and let me know what you think!
> 
> Lots of love to everyone who left kudos, to NiightKiitten17, krankykittie, CordeliaOllivander, and LoverofHPBooks for the comments. And to CaramelShipper, PitfallsOfPlottingPenguins, jmd926, and theruby13 for bookmarking the story. You rock :)


	3. Chapter 3

**Falling Leaves**

**Disclaimer:** All publicly recognizable characters, settings, etc. are the property of their respective owners. The original characters and plot are the property of the author. The author is in no way associated with the owners, creators, or producers of any media franchise. No copyright infringement is intended.

* * *

From the last day of the Triwizard Tournament, Cedric's death haunted her. His gaping yet unseeing eyes as they contemplated the night, his stillness drowned by cheers and whistles... She had asked Harry if things would ever be the same, and though he had said no, very little had changed.

It stood to reason that, if Death Eaters had wreaked havoc at the Quidditch Cup before Voldemort's return, their acts would only grow in cruelty and visibility afterward. She had expected countless reports of deaths and disappearances. Streets deserted enough that silence itself rang loud and the oppressive weight of the Dark Mark floating above one or all of her neighbors' houses as the walls were engulfed in flames. But the only oppressive thing was the summer heat as it permeated every room in her parents' house, weighing down her movements and muddling her train of thought. There were no dark clouds or fog to hint at the ominousness of the situation, no lightning slashing through the sky to convey her terror as they did in books and films. Just the sun–bright and unpleasant and unyielding–and the lazy twittering of birds as they ventured into the yard in search of food then retreated to the trees' shade.

It was worse, perhaps. Not the lack of massive deaths, of course, but apparent peace was noxious for different reasons. Hidden wars never gathered many fighters: people rioted not for good, but to maintain their way of life. The surface-level calm endorsing their beliefs, even when the waters ran deep and troubled. Whilst Harry was discredited by the press, and people's main concern revolved around travel destinations and summer fashion, Voldemort regained his strength.

So she forced herself not to settle. Not to rest.

Whenever the doorbell rang, or someone popped a jar open, or a car backfired, Hermione started. The beginning of that summer vacation had her answering the door at all times, wand concealed behind her back however ludicrous it might be that Death Eaters–or Voldemort himself–would bother with calling etiquette.

Until the time magical callers indeed appeared. Hermione opened the front door to find Professor McGonagall standing on her doorstep. The Head of Gryffindor wore a stifling emerald roll-neck dress, sensible black heels encasing her feet, and hair tied in an updo, looking not so much a witch, but a strict governess. Not a drop of sweat was apparent anywhere despite the ensemble, and Hermione–with her t-shirt already sticking to the skin of her back, hair clipped up haphazardly and damp around her forehead and neck–envied her for a moment: oh, to be allowed to cast Cooling Charms!

When Hermione caught movement at the professor's side, the fluttery herd of Pixies from the year before returned to her stomach with a vengeance. Next to her, and towering over them both, stood Professor Lupin. The same calm, kind closed-lipped smile he had always offered his students two years before graced his lips, and Hermione inhaled rather noisily while trying to keep her gaze from wandering lower as she had done with his companion. Running her fingers over her curls or straightening her clothes would do nothing for her appearance, so she refrained from trying. Then the heat that had gathered on her cheeks and neck at seeing him again melted down, sinking her heart to the bottom of her stomach.

"It's not Harry, is it?" Hermione blurted, thoughts running amok in her mind. Her left hand found support on the door jamb, setting her gaze on Professor McGonagall. If something had, in fact, happened to Harry, she wouldn't be able to take Professor Lupin's kindness.

"Mr. Potter is fine, Miss Granger. We are here to escort you somewhere safe," Professor McGonagall said.

The relief for her friend wasn't long-lived as the witch's words pierced through it: _somewhere safe_ , which implied her parents' house wasn't. It didn't come as a surprise, but the confirmation didn't sit well with her. If she were Voldemort, however...

"I'm really, truly sorry, professor," Hermione raised her wand, staring the witch in the eye, "But we've only just had an impersonator for a teacher. It wouldn't be creative, of course, but… Well..."

That neither of them raised anything at her except for a brow was telling. But Hermione had read about wandless casters, and fighting an underaged student hardly presented a challenge, so she kept her wand arm steady. With her parents at the practice, she would only have to fend for herself, and though the idea did nothing to prevent the sweating of her palms, it brought her some measure of comfort.

Professor McGonagall–or so Hermione hoped–clasped her hands together, her chin held high despite the wand trained at her, "I see Hogwarts has finally managed to teach one of you about danger, Miss Granger," The older witch's face softened, "Though not with the methods I would've preferred."

Hermione grimaced, "Yes. As you can probably recall and I would rather forget, professor, I've had… some experience with Polyjuice Potion. Which is why I know Animagus magic can't be fooled by it. I won't let you in until you show me."

There was a glint of something in Professor Lupin's green eyes when Hermione sneaked a glance at him. It took years off his face, and Hermione was reminded of the boy she met the previous year. "We could use this, Minerva. Amongst ourselves."

The look the witch gave him was not one Hermione was ever keen to receive.

"Very well," In an instant, the silver tabby cat Hermione had seen in her Transfiguration lessons was sitting before her, tail thumping against the ground and pupils reduced to slits. Hermione could almost read _Is this to your satisfaction?_ from its poise alone, and it was rather eerie to think Crookshanks would go along swimmingly with her Transfiguration professor had he not been out exploring the neighborhood, given that they both managed to admonish her with nothing but a stare and a tail flick. Once Hermione had lowered her wand and the other witch had taken human form again, she fixed her gaze on Hermione, "Now, I believe turnabout is fair play. Miss Granger, what object have I given you in your third year?"

The question caught Hermione unaware and her gaze darted to Professor Lupin's face. She answered the question at him, paying minute attention to his body language, "A time-turner."

Despite the mention of time travel, there was no change in Professor Lupin's expression, no hint of recognition whatsoever.

 _Oh_. Her shoulders drooped and she let go of the door jamb to clasp the tip of her wand.

"Good. Now that we've settled this, Miss Granger, would you mind if we came in?"

"Of course! I'm sorry, professor. I had to make sure..."

"I'm not cross, child," The Head of Gryffindor entered the room once Hermione had stepped aside, "Slightly peeved, perhaps. But you did well, given the circumstances."

She motioned for them to take a seat, "Just not terribly well. I'd be dead by now if you were Death Eaters, wouldn't I?"

Their lack of answer was a response in itself and she cringed.

"It won't always be that way, Hermione," Professor Lupin said, and she found she had missed his presence, even if it felt a little bittersweet, "Your instincts were in the right place, and they'll do as much for you, or perhaps more, as the spells."

"Thank you," Hermione debated over whether or not to call him Professor Lupin. When she couldn't decide either way, she changed the subject, "So we're leaving? And my parents?"

"It would be best if they spent a few days out of town."

"I'll… I think I can arrange that."

* * *

She didn't know what she expected from a safehouse that happened to be the Order's headquarters, but that place wasn't it. It had been exciting, reading the address on a piece of paper and seeing it materialize before her, and she had asked a ton of questions about the Fidelius Charm to those who didn't really mind her curiosity and had–or still did, in Professor McGonagall's case–answered them for a living.

Meeting Sirius without Harry there had been rather awkward. There was an anger in him that she didn't quite know how to respond to, and even though he had been pleasant enough to her and grateful still that she had saved his life, he had kept his distance after Dumbledore took her side on a spat with him over Kreacher one night. Not that she had too much time to mull over it given that Mrs. Weasley had them slogging away in an attempt to make the dingy house tolerable. Between that and the too-young-to-join-the-Order eavesdropping efforts, Hermione watched Remus.

She had come to draw a few conclusions, none very helpful. For starters, he spent most of his time at Headquarters with Sirius, which was not unusual given they were best friends. Contrary to his friend, however, he never once insulted Kreacher, even though the elf didn't repay the treatment in kind, spouting prejudice against werewolves whenever possible. And, now that she was studying him, something else caught her eye: although he was a great deal taller than her and most of the others, the baggy cardigans that a third-year Hermione had always associated with gentleness and dependability, now struck her with a different impression. From what little she could recall through her headache, young Remus hadn't seemed keen on loose-fitting clothes, so either he had taken a liking to them at some point, or… Hermione's jaw set in place even though her heart was constricting in her chest. Or he had become an adult werewolf, trying to understate his height, to present himself as non-threatening as possible to others.

She snapped the book she was pretending to read closed and stormed out of the Library. Even if, at the moment, Hermione wished she could bury her face in that hateful piece of clothing, wind her arms around him, and cry.

Which was absurd.

In any case, that understanding along with all the time she had spent around Professor Lupin at Number 12 Grimmauld's Place renewed her determination to figure out what had happened. Perhaps she had been going at it wrong. She had consulted all the books she could find on time travel, but none about the garden itself. As soon as she could once they were at Hogwarts, Hermione went to the Library. Her version of _Hogwarts: A History_ was too new, too heavily edited and revised to have enough relevant information on the garden, so she gathered all the previous ones dating from the garden's creation and sat down.

In the end, it wasn't information per se that she found. Next to the section on the garden in a 1970 edition, four words stained the margins:

_She never came back._

Her breath hitched. Hermione could recognize that handwriting anywhere. It used to come in the form of praise for her work and suggestions of more in-depth reading materials on her third-year DADA assignments.

Despite his discouraging words and oblivion, Hermione still returned to the garden every day. A sheet of moss covered the stone steps and floor, and a dandelion or five–that she hadn't seen since she used to blow them as a child to watch its seeds float around–peeked out in between clumps of overgrown grass. There were flowers as well, though Merlin knew if they had been planted or had grown on their own.

As Hermione returned each day, though, she wondered if perhaps they never met in the past again and she remained a mystery he had long forgotten. By her fourth day there, between reading on how to maintain a garden and her attempts at sprucing it up, the door swung open to reveal a slightly taller Remus than the year before.

She let out a gasp, "It is you! I've been waiting and I didn't know whether or not you would come."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello, lovely people!
> 
> This chapter was actually quite cooperative (which means it led to less banging my head on the keyboard trying to get it to read decently), so I managed to finish it with a lot of time to spare, yay!
> 
> Oh, and I also forgot to mention that this story isn't being betaed, so if you notice something amiss, let me know. English isn't my first language and it can sometimes lead to some traumatizing yet hilarious mistakes (or, you know, some regular ones).
> 
> I really hope you enjoy this chapter and, if you get the chance, let me know what you think!
> 
> Many, many hugs to everyone who left kudos, to AgapeAnthos, jlove34, NiightKiitten17, Zstar385, krankykittie, LoverofHPBooks, and Emar for commenting. And to AgapeAnthos, hiboudeluxe, saribesa, Talesofivylight, Thats_a_Paddlin, krosson247, thedarkestart, jade_eyed_native, Carverjenn, Submissive Bookmark (Myella), and AndieLGranger for bookmarking the story.
> 
> You guys are amazing :)


	4. Chapter 4

**Falling Leaves**

**Disclaimer:** All publicly recognizable characters, settings, etc. are the property of their respective owners. The original characters and plot are the property of the author. The author is in no way associated with the owners, creators, or producers of any media franchise. No copyright infringement is intended.

* * *

There were dry leaves on the ground, whooshing here and there with each gust of whistling wind. There were tree branches peppered with colors, from sickly yellow to dark amber to hints of ruby red. And there was a fallen door, resting at the bottom of the stairs. What there wasn't, was the injured girl Remus had been half-carrying to the Headmaster's office.

He squeezed his eyes shut then opened them as though they had just momentarily failed to process the girl's presence. Apparating was impossible within the castle's grounds, so the former explanation made more sense, however nonsensical it was. Even James' Invisibility Cloak–on the event his friends _were_ behind the whole thing–couldn't hide her scent from his enhanced senses: she had smelled of rapture at reading a great novel, of the heat of a lit fireplace on a chilly day. That was also how he gathered that his theory was just as flawed as the others. Only the faintest trail of her scent remained, slightly stronger inside the garden: her robe and book.

Could he account for her disappearance? Not currently, which didn't mean he wouldn't try. All he needed to do was think, barely a hardship at all, being a task he was often assigned. While James' magic was the strongest, Sirius' talent the most impressive, and Peter's furtiveness the most artful, the how of things usually fell to him in their little group. Though instead of figuring out a way to pull a prank, this time he had to work out the way a prank was pulled. So he made his way down the steps once more, dodging the door on the ground, to see what he had to work with. The robe was of no help, standard Gryffindor uniform from what he could see, a Madam Malkins label on the collar, so he reached down for the rumpled book.

It seemed to be a limited edition, the cover different from his, fancier, and he winced at its state. As he righted the pages into some semblance of flatness, the colophon caught his eye. It read ‘1989, 11th edition’. He chuckled. Vanishing time-travelers, of course… The attention to detail was impressive. Of all the practical jokes, this was the most elaborate one he had ever witnessed. And, for someone with friends such as his, that was the highest praise there was.

When he cast a _Finite_ _Incantatem_ on the page, however, and none of the numbers changed, his amusement faded. He cast a number of revealing spells on it, one after the other, all for naught. For the first time since the garden's door came crashing down, Remus wondered if... He shook his head. No, it was impossible. Traveling twenty years back, with or without a time-turner, was unfeasible. And there was a way he could think of to prove it.

Remus crossed the grounds and entered the castle, climbing staircase after moving staircase, all the while holding the book in front of his body with both hands, her robe draped on his shoulder. The walls, portraits, and people painted a blur around him, although he made sure he didn’t run at any point. Despite the niggling of possibility lighting up inside him like a _Lumos_ spell–one that he was constantly trying to put out–it wouldn’t do to give someone the satisfaction of having him shoot through the corridors like an overexcited first-year if and when his earlier assumptions proved correct.

Once he arrived, password on his lips, Remus ignored a still-fuming Lily and made his way to the boy's dorm. He freed one hand to open his trunk and rummaged through clothes, parchments, and quills until he found it: _Numerical Charts and Probability: A Progressive Approach_ by Janet Boyman. He spent the remainder of the afternoon, most of the evening, and went well into the night making notes and contrasting information between the two.

The changes were considerable. He applied the calculations and the results were, at least, 12% more precise than the ones he had obtained from his version. Remus closed both books and collapsed against the headboard of his bed, pressing his lower palms to his eyes.

He had deemed her a prankster, a liar… Both being things that _he_ was. While he was at it, he might have as well accused her of being a werewolf.

By the time daylight was filtering in through the curtains around his bed, he had determined two things: first, that she had been, in fact, a time-traveler, and second, that he was a complete and utter knobhead. Who, given the chance to talk to someone from the future, would have buggered it up so terribly? The first thing he should have asked her was her name. No wonder Sirius was the popular one among witches. Padfoot might never _remember_ a girl's name, but he made sure to at least _ask_ for it. Would he even be able to identify her on looks alone two decades from now? Having been with her for all of what? Forty minutes? He'd be lucky if he found her strangely familiar, yet unable to put a finger on why.

After that sleepless night, and before he even went to the Great Hall for breakfast, Remus trudged through the bitter morning for the garden. He stayed through the first period - Binns was unlikely to notice his absence, and he could always read about the Vampire Wars in a book. Learning all about a newly reinstated Triwizard Tournament, however… But Transfiguration class came along, and Remus had to leave. He would have returned in the afternoon had Mr. Filch not handed out a week’s worth of detention for their stunt. The next morning, he made his trek back to the garden. The door remained as he had left it two days before, and Remus single-handedly–albeit with some use of magic–restored it to its place, in the hopes that she would come crashing through it once again.

Suffice it to say she didn't.

He had taken to carrying both her robe and book on his rucksack at all times, and to read bits of the book every night, fearing they would vanish from his grasp as she had. After a full moon, when his senses were still painfully heightened, he could pick up traces of her scent on them. But Christmas came and went with no sign of her, and Remus began researching the garden. His copy of _Hogwarts: A History_ lay in James’ Quidditch locker, as they had been gathering in the changing rooms outside of practice to work on the Map and would sometimes consult it, so Remus went for the Library instead to check out the book. His search for any indication that the garden had been responsible for bringing her to his time proved fruitless and, when he found no plausible explanation–or, more importantly, no way to replicate it–in those yellowed pages, he rebelled against the useless book.

* * *

The next time he found himself in that garden, it was autumn again. He hadn't meant to return, had meant to forget all about her, but the pumpkin pranks he had been escaping from when they met were back. Sirius, it seemed, had developed a penchant for them, for the sole reason that his mother abhorred both crop and season. Instead of exploding, however, they were now charmed to bite anything their carved teeth could reach, arses in particular. So Remus’s feet found their way into his old haven.

And standing there, surrounded by weeds, hands covered in dirt, was her. When their gazes met, a gasp escaped her lips. "It is you! I've been waiting and I didn't know whether or not you would come!"

Remus slipped as he dashed down the stairs but somehow caught himself before falling.

"Careful!” She had rushed to his aid, but stopped short of touching him, wrinkling her nose at her hands, “I hit my head the last time, let's not make it a habit, shall we?"

"You."

The witch dusted off the dirt and reached for a rag, "Yes?"

"Name."

"Pardon me?"

"Your name. I never asked your name. Before."

"Hermione, my name's Hermione.Pleasure to see you too, Remus."

“Why did you come back?” Remus had always considered himself to be of average intelligence, at least. Somehow, though, stupidity seemed to flourish whenever he was around her, and he vowed never to poke fun at James again, not when words kept coming out of his mouth like a Bludger he couldn’t stop. Yet, while she hadn’t seemed to mind his lack of articulation before, her eyebrows drew together and upwards at his question, the chocolate-colored eyes he had longed to see again darting from him to the door. He almost choked. “No! In time, I mean. Sorry!”

“Oh, of course. It’s fine,” She trapped a misbehaving ringlet of brown hair behind her ear and ducked her chin to the side, yet Remus was certain he was the one to blush. Either that or he had become feverish all of a sudden. Then she let out a short, breathed laughter and it was all he could do to pay attention to what she said next, “Well, I didn’t have a reason in the beginning. That first time I kind of just… fell back into the past, I suppose. Though I should probably say I fell _forward_ into it since, ironically, that’s what’s happened. This time… This time I came back because of you.”

“Me? Are you sure?”

“Of course, you. Which reminds me, you, sir, are in deep trouble.”

Remus' whole body should have tensed. Those words never boded well, exponentially less so coming from a time-traveler. Yet they made more sense. She wouldn’t have come here for his company. Had he died? Gone to prison? Was that how she had come to know him, from an obituary or a wanted sign printed on the Prophet?

When he couldn’t form a response, she continued, "How dare you…" And the words got worse. Had he slighted her somehow? Or, worse still, had he unwittingly bitten someone she… He sighed. No, he had tortured himself enough about that the last time and concluded she didn’t know. Not a crime against a loved one, then, or not a serious one at least, or there would have been a wand at his neck as soon as he had arrived. Oblivious to his inner turmoil, the girl–Hermione–removed something from her rucksack and pushed it into his hands, "...scribble on a Library book? Honestly! I expected better of you."

When he opened at the bookmarked page, Remus smiled in spite of himself, the knot in his stomach loosening, and his earlier thoughts melted away. He recognized that volume of _Hogwarts: A History_ , his words still tainting the paper. “You found it.”

“I’m known for thoroughly researching things. I was trying to find a way back to you and none of the books—”

“You keep saying that.”

“What?”

“Me. That you’re here for me.”

“You just so happen to be one of my favorite people, Remus John Lupin. The earlier you accept that, the better. Now, unless you don’t want to see me again, in which case you better say so now, we have a garden to research.”

Remus tried to suppress the spark of hope igniting in his chest. He didn't think he was successful. “Then I believe we have a garden to research.”

He had never seen a smile so brilliant.

Hermione–and didn't the name feel right in his head, now that he knew it?–knelt down and proceeded to remove a mountain of books from her sack, so many, in fact, that he doubted all of them could have fit inside. Once he realized he was staring, and that silence had begun to stretch too long, regardless of how heedless of it she seemed, Remus tried for some light conversation, “So, how did the tournament go last year?”

She gripped the book in her hand harder, her tone low when she spoke, “Someone died.”

Shite. “I’m sorry.”

“So am I. Things are… rather bleak at the moment. Those of us with any sense at all are scared out of our minds. The others… not quite.”

“Scared about the tournament?”

Hermione bit her lower lip, “No. Yes. It’s... complicated. And I don’t think I can tell you.”

“Temporal paradoxes and such…”

She gave him a nod and resumed producing a library out of her bag, albeit slower. “Sit. Just watch out for the moss.”

Remus had been so distracted by her presence he hadn’t noticed anything other than her. Now that she mentioned it, however, and he recalled his slip upon descending the steps, he looked around. “What happened to this place?”

It didn’t resemble the garden he used to visit at all. Grass–or tall weeds, he couldn’t determine which–had taken over every available patch of soil, spilling over the fences. The contrast between dark grey and green was gone as well as cushions of moss covered most of the stone floor, and wild, unrestrained greenery was all there was. Moreover, it made the place redolent of dampness, pungent enough to bother, yet not strong enough to be worrisome.

She looked up from her endeavor and made a face, “Doesn’t look very good for a garden, does it? I didn't think much of it, but then, I wasn't _exactly_ paying attention the first time. Ever since I started trying to have it send me back here, it’s been like this. Well, a bit worse for the wear, actually. I’ve been trying to fix it, not very successfully, to be honest, gardening isn’t exactly one of my—Only… Remus, it’s _wrong_! The garden is wrong. I don’t think I traveled back. This time-this time _you_ traveled _forward_! That’s why it’s different, we’re in _my_ garden. It has been closed off for a long time, I think I told you so, remember? It would be rundown for me, in my present, but not for you in yours.”

“I’m twenty years into the future?” This one he attributed to shock instead of plain idiocy.

“Yes. Or at least I think so. I left my book and robe last time, and they vanished. I think, if you were to leave something behind, they would still be there for me.”

“I still have them... But why? Why the past one year and the future the other?”

“Perhaps it’s interchangeable. Or…”

“Or?”

“You were here first last time.”

“So whoever is first to the garden determines the year?”

"It’s an assumption. We could test it, we'll both leave, then I'll wait three minutes before going back inside. Make sure you close the door when you enter."

"What if it doesn't work?"

"You’re right...We'll devise a schedule first and try again, and if nothing works…” Her hand found his, and she gave it a soft squeeze, “Well, I'll see you next year. I'll still come here often, even if you don’t see each other."

Once she had produced a detailed timetable, with several different dates and times allowing for each of their given classes and activities, and he had packed her books, flipping through one or two that hadn't even been published yet, they left. Remus hoped–to Merlin, Morgana, and Circe, and whatever other great wizards and witches there were–that their plan would work.

Yet it still felt like a loss when he watched her disperse like fairy dust in the wind. Once he entered again, the garden was as it should be. Pansies and Heathers were already in bloom, the grass short and delimited to its space. The three most stagnant minutes of his life were passed cataloging all the plants he could see. Anemones, Asters, Basil, Colchicums, Chrysanthemums, Crocus, Cyclamens, Dill…

And he couldn't care less what any of them looked like. He would take the moss, and the weeds, and the—

"This place is beautiful.”

It worked.

When she demonstrated an interest in trying to revive the garden in her time, Remus spent a while telling her about the plants he knew. His mother loved to garden, and, being a confined child, Remus had learned a great deal on the subject. He skipped, however, the monkshood, as though his voice or even addressing it would give his secret away.

Once the hour grew late, and they had grown mostly silent, observing the garden itself, Hermione spoke, "You can't include this on the map, you know."

The quiet, the company, and the fragrances had lulled him into a state of complete peace. "What map?"

"The Marauder's Map. It would be around the time that you and your friends are putting it together, I think."

That woke him up. “You’ve seen it?”

"It’s a truly brilliant piece of magic, be warned that I plan on picking your brain about it. My friend has the map, has had it for close to two years now. He was given it to break rules, by two rule-breakers before him, so I guess it’s serving its intended purposes,” Hermione stood, shooting him a sideways glance and a half-smile. “Mischief Managed, Mr. Moony.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's here! I'm having such a great time with this story, and I hope you all are as well!
> 
> As always, I'd love to know what you thought of this chapter, but I completely get those of you who are too shy. You guys are appreciated, too! *sends lots of hearts your way*
> 
> All my love to everyone who left kudos, to hiboudeluxe, krankykittie, PitfallsOfPlottingPenguins, NiightKiiten17, jlove34, jhsriddle, AgapeAnthos, and GG for the comments; and to squarple, annielynn, Camitsune, JOlivia_shrugs, and Vkitchen for bookmarking the story.
> 
> You all are fantastic! :)


	5. Chapter 5

**Falling Leaves**

**Disclaimer:** All publicly recognizable characters, settings, etc. are the property of their respective owners. The original characters and plot are the property of the author. The author is in no way associated with the owners, creators, or producers of any media franchise. No copyright infringement is intended.

* * *

It wasn't a conversation he wanted to have. Not to be mistaken by disinterest or animosity of any kind–no, that wasn't the case at all. He held his future self in the highest regard since, in some way beyond his understanding, older Remus had to have done something formidable to make Hermione wish to return to him. She had called him one of her favorite people, and Remus had been well-liked and welcomed by his friends, but favored? Cherished to the point someone willingly traveled in time to spend an entire afternoon in a garden with him, hearing about the flora of all things? He loved his friends with a fierceness he often disguised, but Sirius and James were the ones that seemed like long-lost brothers, thick as thieves. Together they burned as the sun. And wherever the two went, Peter followed–Remus understood. It was hard not to want to gravitate in their radiance, bask in their warmth. On the other hand, and in more ways than one, Remus belonged to the moon. He would reflect their light whenever it shone upon him, almost undeservedly, yet a sliver of something remained. Something he did his very best to smother, something that proved his unworthiness. Something her mere presence _fed_.

Who wouldn't want a glimpse at their own future when it was so bright it captured the adoration of a clever, beautiful witch such as Hermione? Therein, however, lied his reluctance. Because he wondered if she would ever compare him to himself and find young, idiotic Remus, who helped his friends sic pumpkins on others, lacking somehow. Wondered if, at some point, she would find him an unfinished, droll mockery when it came to the real thing. So no, it wasn't a conversation he wanted to have. Yet, without asking, there was no way to get the answers he needed, and there were plenty of those.

Because, at the end of the day, how did a 35-year-old werewolf come to meet a teenage witch? Had he known her all her life or had it been a more recent development? Were they friends in the future? Mere acquaintances? No, there was no instance in which he saw himself not craving to maintain a relationship with her, not unless it was inappropriate in some way, and though he could see himself falling desperately in love with her, had begun to already, he knew better than to start a romantic relationship even if she would have him. To be stuck forever with a werewolf was a fate he wished on no one. Yet there was the fact that Hermione had called him Moony. She had also said the Marauders weren't famous in her time, which made this knowledge even more obscure, pointing toward a closer bond between them. It also begged the question of why had older him seen fit to reveal it, given how close to the truth the moniker got.

Those thoughts churned inside his stomach undigested, mashing over and over throughout that night. They soured the taste of his meals, robbed him of sharing genuine laughter with his best friends. But the prospect of having the answers... Nothing could subdue a person quite like scarcity. Being a werewolf, he had always been aware of all the ways he fell short. It was so very easy to determine. What he lacked, however, in comparison to a version of him he could never meet until he had become it? Those were inadequacies only she could shed any light on. So when Hermione entered the garden the next day, looking lovelier and livelier than all the nature around them, sad bitterness bled into his tone, "How do you know me?"

She had been in the process of removing her scarf, but halted, a sad smile pulling on her lips, "I was wondering when you would ask me that."

"Well then, here we are."

"I can't tell you, Remus. You know that. The reason we met… It's the kind of life-changing decision you have to make yourself. The last thing I want is for you to feel you have no control over your life, just because some time-traveler came and informed you of your personal choices. Only you know yourself well enough to make them."

"You said I'm one of your favorite people. How bad could that be, for you to tell me? It would ensure we met when we did."

"You didn't become one of my favorite people because of how we met. Nor because I know everything there is to know about you, because trust me, I don't. You're one of my favorite people because you're kind and brave, loyal to a fault, exceedingly intelligent..."

Heavy, treacherous words weighted in his throat and he choked on his own voice. He had the chance to swallow them, to not question a good thing when it had been handed to him. But wouldn't not knowing spoil things? The shadow of that doubt tarnish any friendship they might develop? "But that's the thing, isn't it? I may not be any of those things. I'm not your Remus… I haven't experienced the things that might have made the me you know who he is."

"My Remus…? Is that what brought this on? That you aren't him, or that you feel you should… No. No, you understand? Coming here was never about holding you against some ideal I've made up in my head to see how well you compare. I've seen how this goes, how people turn against you when you no longer conform to their expectations, and I would not allow it, less so coming from myself. You don't have to be him, I won't hold you to some unattainable standard, expecting you'll meet it because you did at some point in the future. Besides, my knowing you'll be a great man then doesn't make you any less of one now, and you're entitled to make mistakes. You'll certainly witness some of mine–now, later… You'll see me run from a _Bogart_ sobbing my heart out even though I knew the spell to defeat it. Even though I've faced far more dangerous things. Will you judge me then? Think me pitiful? Less than?"

What? "No, of course—"

"There you have it, then. Hogwarts has taught me a lot, Remus. Charms, potions… Yet, ultimately, the most important lesson was that it's possible to be kind without always being kind, and brave without always being brave, and so incredibly stupid at times. They're not absolute traits. Being who you are is far more important than being an embodiment of them. And nothing you say or do will convince me that the wizard who rushed to my aid last year isn't kind, who respected my wish not to go to the Infirmary isn't loyal, that the one putting together a magical map and teaching me everything about plants is unintelligent," For the first time during her tirade, Hermione smiled, "Brave, well, that remains to be seen, but…"

His lips parted. Silence danced between them, almost taking form, waltzing upon the stone floor, floating along with the breeze. Remus locked his feet in place not to run to her, clenched his hands not to hug her and never let go. Even in silence, his voice was but a whisper he wasn't sure would reach her, "Thank you.

And the running came, and so did the touching, but not from him. The next thing he knew, his arms were full of her. Her hands enveloped his torso, fingers clutching his jumper, pulling him towards her. She laid her head over his chest and hugged him tighter, "You silly, silly wizard. You're enough. Whatever you are, whichever you that might be, you will _always_ be enough," Hermione let go of him enough to face him and he missed her warmth instantly, but her scent and eyes conspired to keep him captive. "Now, are you going to show me how to take a cutting of the Heather? I've just had the worst class in the history of bad classes, and it wasn't even Divination. I'm afraid gardening is my last hope to salvage the rest of the day."

* * *

To anyone watching, his actions would paint the strangest of pictures. Remus would enter the garden, leave carrying an unpotted cutting, wait three minutes, then go back inside. All that only to reappear empty-handed, close the door, and open it again, repeating the entire process once more. Restoring the entire garden had seemed too difficult an undertaking, so they carved a corner mini-garden inside the jungle, weeding and fencing it before setting to work on the plants themselves. Over the week, they had also managed to get rid of most of the moss, making the stone floor shine through anew. They would blow on dry dandelions, threaten each other's faces and clothes with dirty hands… Their conversations remained light and free of topics regarding the future. That is, until they didn't.

"That wretched, loathsome, injudicious little toad!"

Her stream of insults snatched Remus' attention. She stomped her way down the stairs, skin flushed, and began to rip her scarf and robe off. "Hermione?"

"Sorry. It's just—She's torturing students now. Those who disagree with her."

"What?" Remus scrambled to his feet, bounding in her direction. He inspected her head to toe, finding no signs of injury, "Who is?"

"Our DADA professor," Her lip curled, "Though 'professor' is too generous a term for the likes of her. She's using a Blood Quill, can you believe it?"

Remus wouldn't be surprised if all blood had drained from his face. Mr. Filch had often threatened he and his friends with physical punishments, but not once had he believed anyone at Hogwarts would enforce them, "Those were banned. Have been for centuries…. Have they reported her?"

"No. Harry is too stubborn."

"Merlin… How long has this woman been teaching?"

"She's just started."

"I think you should report it. She'll be sacked and investigated and—"

"It's not that simple, Remus. I would've gone to the Headmaster already if it were, Harry would be furious, but his well-being is far more important. But I don't believe she would even be suspended, she wasn't hired in the first place… And then she would only make his life more miserable, because of me. Harry's right, just not for the reason he believes," She tipped her head towards the ceiling, burying her hands in her hair, and inhaled. "The position is still cursed and none of the teachers last for more than one year. And it'll be good riddance when she leaves, but we can't afford not to learn anything all year long. Not now. So far we've only had one proper teacher, the others were frauds. It's a wonder we've learned anything at all. And, as if everything else is not enough, she forbids us from using our wands in class. I love books and theory, but..."

"They're not enough. In History of Magic yes, but not Defense," It was unthinkable not to teach defensive spells, more so when it came to students about to take their O.W.L.s. He racked his brain for a way to help, "Perhaps you could ask one of the older students to tutor you? I don't mind teaching you the ones we're learning, but the curriculum might have changed and it seems as though your whole class would need them as well. Those of you worried about the O.W.L.s could put together a club, something along the lines of a dueling club, only intent on teaching spells."

"Remus," Hermione grabbed him by the arms, bounced on her toes, and slapped a kiss on his cheek, "You're brilliant!"

And he felt so, too. Brilliant.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey everyone! This week was a bit crazy since I was working on both this chapter and the one for my other fic, but here it is!
> 
> It ended up being more dialogue-heavy, but for good reason.
> 
> As always, I hope you all enjoy it and let me know your thoughts if you have the chance! :)
> 
> Bear hugs to everyone who left kudos, to hiboudeluxe, NiightKiitten17, krankykittie, and Kaarina_Riddle for the comments; and to dearlydanika, TigrisAltaica, cleverpinky, TheElvesHaveGoneTooFar, Hermione4Life23, and calaguala for bookmarking the story.
> 
> You all always brighten my day, I hope this story brightens yours as well! :)


	6. Chapter 6

**Falling Leaves**

**Disclaimer:** All publicly recognizable characters, settings, etc. are the property of their respective owners. The original characters and plot are the property of the author. The author is in no way associated with the owners, creators, or producers of any media franchise. No copyright infringement is intended.

* * *

Hermione took a bite of the chocolate bar Remus had given her and rested her back against the garden wall, gazing up ahead, “We are calling it the D.A.”

Some things never registered in her mind, like the hard, cold stone ground as their seat or the electricity that ran in the space between her and Remus’ almost-touching shoulders. Perhaps not even the taste of chocolate. Not when the royalty had arrived, announcing the time for the regal ball.

Hermione could hardly blink. All around them, monarch butterflies flittered over their kingdom, gracing random subjects with their touch, partaking of their nectar. At times, they would shiver their wings, poised in place, and take flight, quivering autumn in a majestic, mellifluous choreography. Hermione watched transfixed - her parents had taken her to ballet presentations, and, though riveting, all of them paled. Pliés and pirouettes, regardless of how graceful, could never enthrall her the same way that nature itself did.

Back when she had been little, she had found a copy of Bach’s _There's No Such Place As Far Away_ in her parents’ bookcase, and the watercolor owl in the cover would always transport her to a forest, the freshness of wet grass and earth drifting in the air. She could almost feel the coarseness of a tree trunk beneath her palm as animals of all sorts showed to keep her company. It was the reason her parents had started to take her on camping trips, excitement bubbling in her stomach at the prospect of spotting a curious-looking insect or a wary yet nosy squirrel. The marvel now before her eyes should have revived the feeling tenfold.

Not for the first time, though, and unfortunately not for the last, what-ifs plagued her mind. She couldn’t decide on what would be best and therefore she did nothing, aware that doing nothing constituted a choice in itself. The boys didn’t know about the garden and Hermione couldn’t bring herself to tell them. At times, it felt despicable of her not to try and have Remus bring Harry’s parents along so that Harry could meet them. At others, it felt incredibly cruel to taunt him with something he could never really have, something akin to footprints in the sand, yielding to shifting waves and unheeding wind and, once time caught up to them, vanishing without a trace. It made her maudlin, the beauty before her fleeting and brittle.

She forgot she had even spoken, startling at the timbre of Remus' voice, “D.A.? As in Defence… Alliance? No, wait, Defence Association?”

A forlorn smile tugged at her lips, “Not quite.”

She couldn't tell whether Remus had picked up on her mood, but he insisted, his voice growing higher, “Assembly? Academy? Activists? Ascendants? Apprentices? I’m running out of words here… Defence Avengers?”

"No, stop!” That drew a short laugh out of her. The image of her rag-tag group of friends wearing costumes such as the larger-than-life heroes in the American comics patched the void in her stomach, at least for a moment. Remus had likely never heard about them, and she bumped her shoulder against his, “We're as far from Avengers as we could possibly get. The A stands for _Army_."

From the corner of her eye, she saw that he was no longer staring at the butterflies, his gaze lowered to the ground, “An armed force… Fitting, since the point is to use wands. In this case, they should prove mightier than quills, I think.”

Just as Hermione hadn't corrected Remus' assumption about the reason they needed to learn defensive spells in the first place, she neither divulged the real meaning of the D nor did she expand on all of the A's implications. Perhaps the prospect of war still remained a year or two away from Remus, and she was loath to be the one to rob him of even a minute of peace, let alone years. Or so she thought, perhaps it was merely her indecisiveness again, causing her to lie by omission to another boy other than the ones in her own time.

A liar across the ages.

Hermione grabbed a piece of parchment from the back pocket of her jeans, "More so than you think. She's already declared war on us," She unfurled it and handed it to him.

"An educational decree?” Remus said, taking a moment to read it, “Can she do that? Ban student clubs?"

"I'm afraid so. This woman was never _hired_ , she was _appointed_. By the Minister of Magic himself," Hermione motioned towards the bottom of the parchment, "See here? She's no longer a teacher. Or not just that, anyway."

"A high inquisitor? I've never seen anything like that."

"Neither have I. The Minister has gone mad. He sees threats where there are none and ignores the ones around. Fear and insecurity can prove dangerous when felt by powerful people... That's why he is giving her carte-blanche. Because he trusts her, who will torture students, and not Dumbledore, who would never do so."

"So what now?"

"We adapt. Fortunately for us, this garden isn't the only magical room in Hogwarts. There's another, a hidden one. A friend told us about it, it’s quite useful, not to mention safe. The D.A. is meeting there a few hours from now. Oh, that reminds me, I made you something.”

“You did?”

Hermione turned to face him, adjusting herself to a crossed-legged position and Remus mirrored her movements. The contents of the bag clinked when she fetched it from her robe. She undid the knot on the string that kept it closed and reached inside.

“Well, I kept thinking the members of the group would need a way to communicate about meetings and such, so I decided on these,” Cold metal touched her fingers like cubes of ice and she withdrew a single Galleon, “They’re fake. I made them so they would be inconspicuous if any of the members got caught, yet practical enough that they could be carried anywhere. They should grow hot when the message is changed.”

“Transfiguration and a protean charm?”

“It was the best solution I could find, really.”

“It’s a terrific one!” Remus examined the coin, turning it one way and the other, “And do you think it will work for me, even though I’m twenty years behind?”

Hermione bit her lip, “Not really.”

“Then why—”

“Because you’re the reason this group even exists. You should be a part of it, at least in some way. And I wanted you to have it.”

Remus closed his hand around the coin, “It won’t leave my side.”

They stared at each other for way too long, the moment stretched farther than it should have been. She blamed his eyes. And his ridiculously open and soft expression.

Hermione was the one to break their gaze. “The spells—I think we should begin practicing them. Well, maybe not right now. I don’t believe we can shield all the monarchs along with the plants. It'll scare them away.”

Oftentimes during their time together, Hermione found the need to redirect their conversations. There was a sweetness about Remus that, slowly but surely, turned the crush she had developed for him into a well of adoration. And she could curse his features all she liked, but the reason she was so near to drowning in it was mostly of her own doing or that of her unruly heart.

“We would have less to worry about in the other garden. Between the two of us, I'm sure we can secure our fledgling plot.”

She nodded, more to herself than to him, “Right. Let’s do it.”

* * *

They established a routine. Hermione would transfigure targets out of dry leaves and training dummies out of the muffins Remus pilfered from the kitchens, and they would teach each other jinxes and charms that grew more creative each day. Remus had taken to researching complex, unique ones during meals, classes, and Quidditch matches because there was something inherently beautiful in the way Hermione would observe his movements, flick her wrist, and ignite. Her face would be wash in different colors, light and shadow playing with her features and reflecting in her eyes. On occasion, one of them would challenge the other for a duel, and sparks and flashes would dash and dart all around. There was never a clear winner as they would always end up on the floor, breathless not from effort or pain, but from laughing at the absurdity of the jinxes thrown by the other.

If monsters could taste a bit of heaven, he was sure it was this.

* * *

“I don’t believe I can do it.”

Remus had replicated her movements to the letter several times, and despite the light–however flickering and dim it looked–stemming from the tip of Hermione’s wand, his attempts produced nothing. He had the feeling he would never master that specific spell – there was every chance that his curse had muddied his magic to the point it rotted, a blight so significant it kept the purest of spells from manifesting. Remus closed his eyes, training his face to remain expressionless, to keep it from reflecting the emptiness crawling up his gut, bearing the lead-like weight it ironically added to his limbs along with the stain brought on by the closeness to the full moon.

A rustling sounded beside him and the faint light he could discern behind his eyelids faded, “Of course you can.”

He pressed his lips together and reopened his eyes, the muscles of his neck corded, “Are you cheering for me or telling me?”

“Well, both, I suppose,” Her brows furrowed in thought, and Remus had never ceased to be amazed at the way she could have an entire discussion in her head in the span of a few seconds, but, at the moment, he wanted to snarl at it. She was the one with all the knowledge he could never touch, wasn't she? “I told you I won’t hold you against yourself, Remus. But this is a bit different.”

“Different how?” The bite in his tone wasn't intended, but it felt _right_ , justified. She had gone back on her word, his ineptitudes had started to show.

“It’s… a cycle, for lack of a better word. Or a loop. A friend once said he had managed to perform this spell for the first time because he already had.”

A friend said… wait, what? “I don't think I follow.”

“You see, this garden isn’t my first experience with time travel.”

The words were out of his mouth before he could stop them, “You make a habit out of it?”

“Sarcasm... I should’ve expected that,” A smirk softened her words, and she quirked an eyebrow at him, “I did, in fact. Make a habit of it. I was granted a time-turner during my third year to take on more classes than a regular schedule would allow.”

All previous thoughts blanked in his mind, “A time-turner?! That is highly unfair, no one ever offered me one.”

Remus had never wished for something more than he did for a surface to bang his head against right at that moment. He had gone from righteous anger to sounding like a petulant child.

“Well, my friends aren’t nearly the hellions yours are. Or, at least, not intentionally. And I’m notorious for following the rules... mostly.” He shot her a look and she huffed, “ _Fine_ , maybe it is unfair, but the point is, I had to take a friend along once and reached a point in which our past selves were in a spot of trouble with dementors.” She held up a hand to stave off the question about to fall from his lips, “Please, Remus, don’t ask or I’ll never finish explaining. Our past selves had been saved by someone who had cast the Patronus charm. We thought it had been someone else who did it, but Harry realized we were at the exact place and time and no one else was there. You see, it had been Harry who had saved us all along, and, since he knew, had _seen_ his Patronus come out, he was able to cast it.”

“How does that relate to me?”

“Because _he_ is the one who taught _me_ , _I_ am the one teaching _you,_ and _you_ are the one who taught _him_. It stands to reason you will learn it, eventually if not now, or he wouldn't have done it in the first place.”

“The wonders of time-traveling?”

“Quite.”

When Remus did manage to produce a Patronus, it was only to find it abhorrent. How happy memories could manifest into his worst nightmare he didn’t know, but there the wolf was, bounding around the room all the same and circlingHermione before stopping to stare at him. With a wave of his wand, the beast disappeared. And Remus had to curb the need to vomit throughout Hermione’s excitement.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey everyone, here's another finished one :)
> 
> As always, I really hope you enjoy and share your thoughts with me if you can :)
> 
> to those of you who left kudos, to hiboudeluxe, grungyspacepirate, ybriKnoswaD, Kaarina_Riddle, krankykittie, jade_eyed_native, NiightKiitten17, sunflower_swan, daisybouquet, LoverofHPBooks, lmcgiggles, Hermione4Life23 for the comments. And to lmcgiggles, sunflower_swan, GetTheeToBed, AMHL1417 for bookmarking the story.
> 
> You guys are wonderful! :)


	7. Chapter 7

**Falling Leaves**

**Disclaimer:** All publicly recognizable characters, settings, etc. are the property of their respective owners. The original characters and plot are the property of the author. The author is in no way associated with the owners, creators, or producers of any media franchise. No copyright infringement is intended.

* * *

Mud clung to her Dragonhide boots, capturing a dead, sodden leaf or two as she trudged the path across the grounds. The weather had been damp, dark, and dismal to the point its depiction rhymed in its misery. November had arrived amidst the rain and the biting cold, yet it had brought Hagrid back, bruised and filled with secrets, and, with him, the hovering threat of Umbridge. Passing muster on her so-called inspections, Hermione knew, had far less to do with being a good teacher than it had with meeting her standards on breed and her own beliefs on what constituted "necessary" education.

In spite of both that and Hagrid's stubbornness, Hermione still sought to rework his lesson plans, on top of studying for her O.W.L.s, completing class assignments, attending D.A. meetings, performing her Prefect duties, and caring for the garden. The last time this many commitments had piled up on her plate, Professor McGonagall had lent her the means to cheat time. And, whilst Hermione was meddling with it once again, this one wouldn't be fooled: it flowed in concomitance to her own. Which left Hermione no other choice but to redraft her entire schedule so as to keep missed tasks from snowballing the others. It got to a point she had only finished reading the books for her core subjects and was merely three chapters ahead for the others. It made her feel naked, somehow. What if it was knowledge Harry would need to fight Voldemort? What would she say, _'I don't know'_?

The hourglass' fine, colored sand traveled so much faster than she could account for, and regardless of how much she tried to slow its descent, it kept slipping between her fingers as time and sand were wont to do. While Hermione was always available to her friends, she had to resist the urge to cross 'maintaining friendship' off her list the same as other tasks when she did. She doubted Harry or Ron would appreciate it, they didn't care much for planning. On the other hand, Remus had become fully integrated into her timetable. Together, they had set manageable - not to mention frequent - dates and times for them to meet, so as not to leave seeing each other to chance. Thus far, it had worked.

Hermione tugged her coat tighter, forgoing a warming charm, and continued on her way. If her mane of hair rivaled that of an actual lion in the humid yet cold weather, she cringed at how bushier still it would look if she magicked herself warm and dry. The heavy wooden door guarded the entrance to the room the same as always, veiled by the foliage as a mystery beckoning to be unfolded, the puddle before it a darker reflection of its call. Threads of water ran down the disturbed ivy as she pushed it aside, and Hermione grasped the wet, slippery iron handle, and turned it, only to be met with the more barren version of their garden - Remus had yet to arrive.

When did Hermione start dubbing the garden "theirs", she couldn't say, but the feeling of shared ownership came regardless. It was their secret, after all, and it was only right that she call the place their own, even if only for the school term. She descended the steps, dropped her rucksack to the ground, and waved her wand slowly from right to left until water began streaming from its tip, and Hermione directed it at the soil, caring not to drench any particular spot. Their pet project was coming along rather nicely, mostly due to Remus' green thumb - a knack she wouldn't in a million years imagine he possessed. None of the cuttings they had taken from his time's garden had yellowed, much less withered, even though so far the only thing in bloom were her feelings for Remus.

Hermione would catch herself stealing glances whenever his focus was either on the plants or spells and the slight crease of his brow proved endearing, the slight smile at a successful accomplishment tantalizing. They were friends, however, and friends didn't find themselves riveted by each other's facial expressions. The only thing riveting about Harry, for example, was the fact that, unlike Ronald, he could manage to chew with his mouth shut, and even then she wouldn't call it "riveting", but rather basic eating etiquette. She didn't dare put a name to her emotions regarding Remus, but, at this point, she doubted names alone would make much difference.

Therefore, when Remus missed their first scheduled meeting of the month, Hermione tried to suppress her disappointment. It was bound to happen eventually, with either one, it just so happened to be with him. She checked on the plants again and worked on putting together a safe, sensible syllabus for Care of Magical Creatures. When Remus was fifteen minutes late for their second meeting, Hermione sat on the floor and opened a book, but read very little of it between the constant glances toward the door that refused to open. By the time supper was approaching, she gathered her things and left, determined to check the dates on his year's lunar chart, thinking him too ill to show. The next transformation was still over two weeks into the month, though.

If not for his arrival after the fact, Hermione would have blamed his absence on his Patronus. She had insisted Harry teach her the charm beforehand since she was already familiar with the ones he had them practice, and while Hermione herself had no luck conjuring it, Remus' talent when it came to Defence Against the Dark Arts showed. As they practiced spells together over the last two months, she had been awarded a glimpse at his inclination towards teaching.

She had also seen the way that spark had dimmed at the form his Patronus took, yet had been unable to contain her excitement, hoping it would somehow infect him as well. It didn't. Harry might have mentioned off-handedly that he had never seen Professor Lupin's Patronus in corporeal form, and she recalled, from the train ride to Hogwarts, only its beaconing light, pulling her from the darkness the Dementors had brought forth. Now, Hermione understood the reason why.

She had a mind to tell him. To admit to the knowledge of his condition and spew out her thoughts on werewolf discrimination. The only thing to hold her back was herself. How would Remus feel, years from now, when thirteen-year-old Hermione, believing him a traitor, spat the very word in his face, as though it had something to do with why he couldn't be trusted? As though she attributed his betrayal not to choice, but to a preposterous predisposition to it?

She had told him about being entitled to one's mistakes, yet that did not exempt a person from the consequences. And perhaps there was no other mistake she regretted more. Her actions had mirrored that of many others, fueled by their prejudice and bigotry when she did know better. She still remembered the way the word Mudblood fell from Malfoy's lips. Had a friend done the same...

Hermione had strived to hurt Remus then, and, given the time they were spending together now, had likely accomplished to do so far deeper than she had realized. It was sobering to judge one's own behavior through the lens of another. The heavy, crushing feeling of her ribcage closing around her lungs stayed the revelation. What would it achieve? Whom would it comfort, Remus or her consciousness? She wasn't worthy of his forgiveness yet, but someday… Meanwhile, she got him a tonne of chocolate from Honeydukes and a few of Zonko's newest trinkets, and nothing else was said about the wolf or any Patronus. By the end of the afternoon, unless she had started to delude herself, things had seemed better.

The truth was Hermione still knew very little about Remus' past. Perhaps Gryffindor had won a match and he was celebrating in the Common Room, or had he been handed out a detention? It was unusual for prefects to receive them, and it might put his badge at risk, but then Ronald had been made one and if he hadn't managed to lose the position, she doubted Remus ever would. Then again, the reason could be another one entirely. Hermione herself kept reprimanding Fred and George for testing their magical inventions, hammering on the dangers involved, and, as far as her understanding went, the Marauders were just as bad as the twins, if not worse. She worried her lower lip to swollenness. Had he injured himself with a tricky prank gone haywire? Part of her was tempted to break into Madam Pomfrey's records to find out, but it would imply asking Harry for his Invisibility Cloak, and she had no plausible excuse to offer him.

When she established Remus wouldn't show anymore, she checked out random books from the library in the hopes one would contain a message of some sort - never had she wished for the desecration of books quite so fiercely. In fact, she doubted she had ever done so before. Madam Pince seemed none too pleased by her removing books at random from the shelves and asked more than once if she could help her. Only one person could, though.

And Hermione did write present-Remus a letter. Then proceeded to rewrite it a thousand times over. Sometimes she addressed him as Remus. Others, as Professor or Lupin. She would ask a million questions or the words would cling to her quill and refuse to touch parchment. In the end, the entire thing felt silly. Nothing fatal had happened, after all, or he would no longer exist. And he had been there to take her to Grimmauld's Place just a few months before, amused by her demand that Professor McGonagall transform. The letter remained in her possession, buried in her trunk beneath her belongings, but it didn't keep her from visiting the garden every day, tending to it for when he did show. The thought soothed the ache in her chest, if only momentarily.

She now had more time at her disposal, yet wished that wasn't the case. Harry seemed happy, at least. The D.A. meetings kept going swimmingly well, and Hermione hadn't missed the way he and Cho Chang looked at each other. A seedling of envy wrapped its roots around her stomach, and it made her miss Remus even more acutely. But she pushed it down and set out to knit hats and socks to free all of Hogwarts' elves. There was magic in weaving wool even when no actual magic was involved. Although a clock like the one in the Burrow would've been more reassuring, the repetitive, constant movements settled her mind, keeping it from devising horrible scenarios about what could have happened. Once Harry came to them about his first kiss, Hermione felt less a pit of woes, and more the friend who could listen and support him as he deserved. Though she did sympathize a little more with Cho than she did with Harry.

When Hermione exited the girls' dorm the next day, it was to rattling news. Neither Harry nor Ron were waiting for her, and Neville told her Harry had screamed himself awake that night, though no one knew for sure why. Not even Ginny or the twins were anywhere to be found. She stormed out the portrait, leaving her things behind, and stalked the floors of the castle, pulling open doors to classrooms and broom closets in a manner reminiscent of Professor Snape's.

As she exited the Infirmary with still no clue whatsoever of their whereabouts, Colin Creevy came skidding out the stairs, almost colliding with one of the suits of armor. But Hermione had too much on her mind to even reprehend him as she should so she turned a blind-eye and strode in the other direction.

"Hermione, Hermione!" Colin shouted.

"What, Colin?" She had no time for pictures at the moment.

"Professor Dumbledore," At that, she turned. The boy was doubled down, hands on his knees and sweat pooling on his forehead. Of course, she should have gone to him! The Headmaster would obviously know what happened. The young Gryffindor boy swallowed a gulp of air and continued, "Professor Dumbledore asked to see you."

Hermione was already in motion. "Thank you!"

Once she reached the second floor, it was to a disagreeable sight: Umbridge stood at the end of the corridor, lips scrunched as a prune and nose up in the air, glaring at her as though Hermione had killed her cat. It only made the dread slushing in her stomach worsen, but Hermione walked up to the Gargoyle and whispered the password all the same. The stairs didn't seem to move fast enough, and she was inside the office at the first syllable of 'enter'.

"Ah, Miss Granger," Professor Dumbledore was sitting in his armchair, his garish robe clashing against every color in the room, "do you know why I have called you?"

"No, sir, but I assume it has something to do with the news Harry looked so awfully ill last night Professor McGonagall had to be called, and how I wasn't able to find neither him nor Ron, nor even any of Weasleys, for that matter, anywhere in this castle, and why that bloody toad was looking at me like a constipated little bloodhound… Professor."

"I am sure I wouldn't know what toad you are referring to. Never liked them much, myself, to give them the time of day," His eyes twinkled in mirth, yet only for a moment, "But your assumptions would be correct. Please, sit."

"I'm babbling, I'm sorry, Professor, it's just… it's _them_ , and trouble is bound to be involved." She chose the closest chair, took a breath, and tried to reclaim some semblance of collectedness. "What happened, sir?"

"Arthur Weasley has fallen victim to a snake attack while on Order duty."

If the ground could disappear beneath her feet, she was sure it had just done so, the arms of her chair her only lifeline. "Mr. Weasley? Is he-how is he? Will he make it? What-?"

"Arthur is on the mend, according to the healers. He was found on time and brought to St. Mungos. Harry witnessed his attack while dreaming."

"A snake, you said... it was Voldemort's, wasn't it? Nagini?"

Dumbledore gave her a curt nod.

"And Harry witnessed it?"

"I'm afraid so, Miss Granger. As luck would have it, it was also what allowed us to come to Arthur's aid."

"That's… good, in part. But it doesn't bode well, does it?"

"It is of no matter at the moment, I will take the steps to remedy it after the holidays," He extended a tin filled to the brim with lemon drops towards her, but Hermione shook her head. She doubted anything would agree with her stomach right at the moment. "In the meantime, I have sent Harry and the others to Snuffles' house, you are more than welcome to join them once the term is officially over."

"I'll write to my parents, Professor," She slid to the edge of her seat, knees a bit weak, and wondered if there would be any school owls available to borrow this close to Christmas, "If that's all?"

"It would be. Unless I could ask that you indulge an old man's curiosity?" When Hermione didn't protest, he continued, "How much do you know about Lughnasadh and Samhain, Miss Granger?"

"Headmaster?"

"The Celtic celebrations, my girl."

"I know. The Celts considered Samhain the beginning of winter. It was also the day when it was believed that the boundary between the dead and the living weakened, something that we've come to know as All Hallow's Eve or Halloween. They would make offerings to the spirits and fairies and wear costumes to personify them, it's said it placated the spirits and protected the living from harm. Lughnasadh, I'm not so familiar with, only that there are two more, Beltane and Imbolc. I meant why do you ask, Professor."

"Some doors open and close as they should. Understanding might come in handy, don't you think?"

Hermione furrowed her brows and tried to make sense of it, "Will this help Harry, sir?"

"Your friends are quite lucky to have you, my dear. You're in possession of not only a quickness of mind but of an exceptional willingness to help others. While one is an innate talent and will serve you well, as it has done for witches and wizards across the ages, the other holds far more value." He rose from his seat, walked towards a bookshelf, and dragged one of his long, brittle-looking fingers over one row of books' spines until he stopped and pulled the chosen volume out. "Allow an old fool to provide you with some in return, although I fear it may be too small a demonstration in the grand scheme of things."

She left Professor Dumbledore's office with a tome in hand and more questions than answers.

Once Hermione arrived at Grimmauld Place, she couldn't help but look around, expecting to see Remus with a mesh of tension and anticipation. The living room was empty, and so was the Library, but she followed the small, muffled noises leading her to the kitchen. She was met with Sirius preparing some tea for Mrs. Weasley, and Harry's Godfather was the first to spot her, "Hermione! Come, take a seat. Tea?"

"Do come in, dear," Mrs. Weasley said, while discreetly trying to banish a tear from her cheek. "Ron had told me you would be staying with your family. Skying, wasn't it?"

"Skiing, actually. But Professor Dumbledore told me about Mr. Weasley, and I told my parents I couldn't make it. How is he? Is there any news? And no, Sirius, thank you."

"That's very sweet of you, and Arthur will be quite pleased, but all will be well, dear, the healers are confident in his recovery. I'll make you something to eat."

"No, Mrs. Weasley, it's no trouble, really. I've just eaten at the castle. I'll put away my things and go look for the boys."

"Hermione," Sirius called after her, then added in a lower voice, his face equal parts hard and worry-creased, "Harry is in a mood."

"Oh. I'll see what I can do."

He inclined his head, the lines in his forehead less pronounced.

Once Hermione had gotten Harry to open the door, and Ginny had hammered him with how it felt to be possessed by Voldemort on the head, demonstrating the ridiculousness of his behavior, Ron suggested a match of Exploding Snap. Before they left the room to follow the others, however, Hermione tugged at Harry's jumper.

"Harry... did Professor Dumbledore talk to you about a door?"

"I haven't seen him enough these past few months for him to tell me anything much, Hermione. Why?"

"Nothing, nevermind."

"I did dream of one, though. When-when Mr. Weasley was attacked... I can still remember it." He rubbed the scar on his forehead. "Can't seem to forget, to be honest. What did Dumbledore tell you?"

"A riddle, I think. 'Some doors open and close as they should'."

Harry looked to the side for a beat, then said in a deadpan voice, "Brilliant."

Hermione grimaced. She couldn't help but agree.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here's another!
> 
> I think I should clarify some things before we get further into the story: my plans for it include going all the way through the Battle of Hogwarts, with maybe one or two chapters after it, and I'll try to stick to canon as much as I can. Sometimes that will mean choosing movie canon instead of books simply to fit my needs on what happens next until the time neither will be of use and things will go AU. That said, Ron/Hermione and Remus/Nymphadora definitely won't take place, like, at all. I think these are the canon pairings I dislike the most, so I don't think I could write them even if I wanted to, which I really, really don't. I don't hate the characters, though, so there's no need to worry about any bashing. I'll let you guys know if something else arises and feel free to ask if you have any questions. I can't answer them all, but I'll do my best :)
> 
> And guys, this story got a new art! Krankykittie made it as a gift (THANK YOU!) and I adore it! I have no clue how one goes about displaying it here, but it'll be up in all of the HP Facebook groups I divulge this story if you're curious! Chances are most of you have already seen it, but I had to mention it because I LOVE IT!
> 
> As usual, I do sincerely hope you enjoyed this chapter and let me know your thoughts if you get the chance :)
> 
> Bertie Bott's Every Flavour Beans to hiboudeluxe, sunflower_swan, ybriKnoswaD, NiightKiitten17, Hermione4Life23, grungyspacepirate, krankykittie, Kaarina_Riddle for the comments, and for everyone who left kudos!
> 
> You guys are the best :)


	8. Chapter 8

**Falling Leaves**

**Disclaimer:** All publicly recognizable characters, settings, etc. are the property of their respective owners. The original characters and plot are the property of the author. The author is in no way associated with the owners, creators, or producers of any media franchise. No copyright infringement is intended.

**ATTENTION! There are some mild dark thoughts in this chapter. I don't believe they'll be triggering to anyone, and the section is very, very short, but I thought it best to let you know.**

**ATTENTION #2! A few words are being eaten by the Doc Manager and I have no idea why or how to fix it. Up until the last chapter, I had been able to catch the missing bits before posting, but I missed one last chapter. The fixed sentence now reads:** "Meanwhile, she got him a tonne of chocolate from Honeydukes and a few of Zonko's newest trinkets, and nothing else was said about the wolf or any Patronus."

* * *

_October 1975_

Remus pinned his Prefect badge haphazardly to his robe, alternating between half-running through the corridors and advancing in a more purposeful, dignified manner whenever he reached a turn, lest he cross paths with a teacher. After Peeves had changed the direction of three consecutive flights of stairs just for the fun of encumbering his efforts, Remus decided to stick to the castle's secret, tamper-proof passageways. He was too late already to put up with impish poltergeists and their boredom. As he stepped out of the last one - hidden behind an unremarkable-looking, brown tapestry - Remus rested his back against the stone wall and heaved a breath, countering his weight so as to keep from sliding down to the ground.

On the opposite wall, right below a torch, cows had stopped their perpetual gnawing on brush strokes of grass to stare at him from inside their delicate, indented frame.

What a picture he must make that the inane paintings of the castle watched him as if he were the exhibit and not the other way around. Raspy pants escaped his lips, his lungs burning with each icy, shallow burst of air that made its way inside, and he pressed a hand over his chest, guiding his ribcage to a less bruising breathing pattern. Then again, Remus would need multiple hands since every single part of his body screamed its existence through pain, a cacophony of muted grievances to which he gave little importance, a smile tugging at his lips.

She had brought him chocolates. It had been the most perfect gift, and just after a full moon, too, though Hermione wouldn't know that, just as she wouldn't know that he had snuck out of the Infirmary to meet her, and had done so against Madam Pomfrey's recommendation that he stayed longer. The transformation had been a few days prior, but the cold always made them more ghastly, even when they already felt as though the stillness of death would be a kinder alternative, every muscle in his body tightening and twisting and turning into themselves in toe-curling, gruesome ways, his skin an all-encompassing itch made not of flesh but of sweat and boiling blood as each and every strand of fur punctured through it like needles. But the cold… the cold penetrated through skin and muscle and drove his anguish all the way to the bone. It cut through the marrow, shattering its encasing as though it was made of the thinnest ice. Remus always wondered when a lucky one would shatter the right way and pierce his heart.

All it took was one shard.

He was convinced it would happen. At times, he would covet it. There was a freedom only death would grant him, that of never having to live with the aberration inside him ever again. Each time he would be disappointed, though: Death seemed disinterested in sparing Remus any pity, perhaps because he had enough to wallow in it for himself.

As of late, however, whenever the beast clawed its way out from within, Hermione's face shone as a refuge in Remus' mind. Dying would have meant never seeing her eyes light up again, never watch her hair change with her mood, never set gaze upon the smiles he pretended were just for him, and the possibility was one he could no longer entertain. He had had to see her earlier that day - it was no longer a wish, but a necessity. He couldn't bear to think she would be waiting for him there, alone, wondering why he hadn't shown. So far, Remus had been careful not to schedule for them to meet on the afternoons of a full moon yet hadn't predicted having to stay four days in the Infirmary afterward. Despite the weakness wearing on his body, Remus was glad that he went. She had welcomed him with a smile, a mishmash of flavored chocolates from Honeydukes, and the most nonsensical baubles he had ever seen.

The small touches had been there as well. His starvation for contact had gone unnoticed before Hermione, like something you didn't miss because you didn't know of its existence, a quiet need that only made itself known when fulfilled and you couldn't fathom the glaring difference it made to do so. The belief that she made him better than any strengthening potion in Hogwarts could wasn't a foolishly romantic exaggeration. She would touch him a hundred different ways, from full-blown, drawn-out hugs to half-hearted, huff-accompanied little swats, and they settled something inside him, even when the physical pain remained.

At night, sometimes, his skin still retained the warmth wherever she had touched, and sleep brought balming dreams that would never come to pass. That day, she had laid her head on his shoulder - her peach-scented shampoo even richer than their assorted sweets - and sighed. Something was burdening her mind. While they were together, Hermione smiled far more than she worried, but there were still times when he wished he could rob some of her concerns for himself. Remus bore the weight of one pernicious secret. How many more did she?

When darkness bled inside through the small, round windows, Hermione placed a kiss on the shoulder she had been leaning against, igniting tingles from the point of contact all the way to his throat and heart, muttered a quiet "Until the 1st, Remus", and stood, all before he could collect his thoughts enough to as much as give her a reply.

His heart always raced when she surprised him, and she always somehow did.

News that he was no longer under Madam Pomfrey's care had likely reached the Common Room already, so Remus had rushed to fulfill his duties. After he composed himself, brushing his clothes with the palm of his hands and carding his fingers through his hair, he turned a corner. The signature long auburn hair of his partner was hard to miss as she neared the Trophy Room up ahead, and he closed the remaining distance between them in large strides, "Sorry, Lily."

If she was startled by his arrival, Lily didn't show, but she slowed her pace regardless. "Falling ill is out of your control. You have nothing to be sorry about, Remus. You shouldn't even have come."

"I feel better."

Remus could feel her side-eyed gaze on him. Squaring his shoulders, he pushed out his chest and opened his eyes a bit wider, trying with all his might to appear livelier.

"I'm sorry, but you don't look it." His entire chest deflated once again and he closed his eyes in an extended blink. Lily had always had the oddest combination of kindness and harsh honesty Remus had ever encountered. With his luck, his attempt had come out as an uncanny impression of a cockerel instead of healthy. "Have you eaten well, at least? I didn't see you at the Great Hall."

"Do chocolates count?"

"I'll take the absurdity of your question as a no, then."

"They were… they were a gift." He had not the faintest idea of what made him tell Lily that. None other than the innate tendency of secrets themselves, contradictory in its nature as it was, to seek out confidants in order to flaunt their shrewdness while denying it in the process. And as confidants went, the other Marauders were out of the question, their help, however well-intentioned, would be hell if they caught even a hint of Remus being remotely interested in someone, whereas Lily… Lily would keep mum about it.

He had admitted to nothing much, but heat spread through his neck and face nonetheless, despite the chill surrounding them, and he regretted the words right after. Would it be too much to hope that clumsy words and embarrassment didn't translate into a flush? Or that Lily would have a rare, unheard-of moment of denseness and not read anything into them?

"Wow. Remus. John. Lupin." Yes. Yes, it would. "I can hardly believe it! Who is the girl? Is she a Gryffindor? A Ravenclaw?"

"She's not from here. And it's not like that, she is…" Orderly chaos, orange-red fire contained by a knowing gaze and a tilt of her mouth. Haughtiness laced with wit yet tempered by the softest tenderness. "She's a friend, is all."

"Oh, so I suppose your other, non-feminine friends have also gotten you chocolates as a get-well-soon gift?"

"My 'non-feminine friends' are not good examples to judge others by. They might give it a go, but I wouldn't eat any food coming from them unless I wanted my hair dyed blue for a week."

"Not even from Peter?" Remus gave her a pointed look. "Fair point, I wouldn't either. But a cheeky card would be the right mix of aloof yet friendly, anything other than that… I may be wrong, but she might actually like you."

"She didn't even know I was sick. I wasn't feeling myself the last we've spoken, and she thought it might cheer me up, I think."

"Chocolate as a spontaneous treat? I take what I said back, she does like you. And before you say anything, I can tell. Abigail - the Hufflepuff, remember? - fancied you for the better part of last year, and _you_ never even noticed. _I_ , on the other hand..." Lily did stop walking this time and turned toward him. "But no matter. I think the important question is, do _you_ like _her_?"

"I do. Still, that—"

"Still nothing, Remus. Don't wait until she hits you on the head with her feelings, talk to her, let her know yours. Love, in friendship, can fester unless addressed early on. If one or both of you behave cowardly…" She swallowed, and Remus could smell the salty scent of tears. He would have comforted her, but she kept staring straight ahead, her steps unfaltering. If his inkling was right, he had very little ground to do or say anything anyway. Remus had been both witness and accomplice to the catalyst that had brought on those tears, and if there was something he wasn't proud of, it was his uncomfortable acceptance - but acceptance nonetheless - of the actions that led to it. "Things can go wrong, terribly so. Not to mention you'll both be happier in the long run if everything is clear even if things end up not working out. If you do marry her someday, however, I expect nothing less than to be included as a bridesmaid. Or not, if the groomsmen are going to be those three. Now come, let's finish this corridor. There are some final touches I need to add to my Arithmancy assignment before sleep."

November had arrived bringing the best of tidings. Instead of dreading the day of the transformation, Remus had been given a reprieve: a total lunar eclipse would take place during the full moon that month, so, other than some restlessness, his pet monster wouldn't be able to show its ugly head. Also, his talk with Lily had planted a seed of hope, one he had no idea how or even if he should cultivate. If Hermione liked him back… What then? Even as he reminded himself at set intervals that he was a werewolf and shouldn't put her in the position of unwittingly dating a beast, he couldn't deny that the idea of her corresponding to his feelings put a spring to his step, one he had been quick to tell his friends had to do with the eclipse. That month, he could almost pretend he was just an average teenage wizard, in love with a charming young witch.

When Hermione didn't show on the first as they had agreed, he had chalked it up to a scheduling issue, even though she was the most organized student Hogwarts had likely ever seen. The second time, he had gone straight to the dorm after she failed to show, low-key fear eating at his insides.

He had gotten her expelled.

That was the only explanation he could come up with. She had seemed preoccupied, and perhaps he should have given more credence to his suspicions that something was amiss, but nothing about her actions screamed final or overly worrisome. But if not showing hadn't been her decision to begin with...

Remus was used to Professors Dumbledore and McGonagall's leniency, but Hermione had told him about the Ministry appointée's tyranny, and what had he done? Encouraged her to form an illegal club, not to mention have her return to the garden repeatedly even when she had told him it was off-limits to students in her time. Ultimately, he had her risk undergo torture, have her skin forever etched with the markings of a Blood Quill along with whatever other sick punishments that raving woman could concoct. Placing her at the mercy of a madwoman, perhaps expulsion was the better option after all, even if, when his time caught up to hers, Hermione would be a fiery ball of righteous energy.

But his older self wouldn't stand for her being hurt. He would have had the same thought, many years before, and would be able to prevent it, to be there for her no matter what. That notion was the only thing allowing him to breathe.

As the days passed without her, and the sun seemed more subdued than ever, Remus tried to tell himself it wasn't as if her absence hadn't happened before. Just last year he had thought he wouldn't see her again, wouldn't recognize her further on when they met in the future, and life had kept going. Now, he knew he wouldn't forget her - couldn't, yet the idea of not seeing her for decades…

He wished he could find some clue, but even though he now had a name, he had just that: one name. She hadn't provided a last name and he hadn't asked for it (stupid, stupid werewolf, repeating the same mistakes).

Remus couldn't go about Hogwarts asking students what they would name their children, not without looking like he had lost all the wits he had about him. He knew her best friends' first names as well, but a fat lot of good the knowledge did him, for the very same reason. He had already searched Gryffindor, Ravenclaw, and Hufflepuff for someone with features that resembled hers, but to no avail. The only one who had some passing likeness was Bellatrix Black, but he doubted any child she birthed could turn out to be as benevolent as Hermione was. Slytherin didn't suit her in the slightest.

And to think he had been feeling chipper... He would gladly trade the respite the eclipse offered for her happiness and the certainty that she was alright.

* * *

_December 24th, 1995_

Remus sat before his desk and scanned the contents of the old, yellowed piece of parchment, a tumbler of firewhisky drawing darker rings on the light-colored wood. Some of the parchment folds were already torn, had split due to too many uses, the ink not as jet-black as it once was. It crinkled in his hands as he refolded and stored it away.

The stoked embers in the fireplace burst into tall, green flames and Sirius' floating head poked inside, "Remus? Are you there?"

Remus swirled the amber liquid once before draining the last gulp. "I'm here, Sirius, as I told you I would be yesterday and the day before that, and two weeks prior to that."

"Are you sure you aren't coming? They're here, you know. Everyone."

"We both have things to do. The Order's instructions…"

"I haven't forgotten. But it's Christmas. Surely we can rest for one day?"

"You can, Sirius."

"But not you?"

"Dumbledore's—"

His best friend's expression closed off, a harsh glint back in his eyes. "I know when you're lying, always have. So don't bother. Happy Christmas, Moony."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *Slaps some Remus POV into your hands and smiles*
> 
> I hope you guys liked this chapter! Not the happiest one, I know, but this story is the Happily-Ever-After kind, so fear not, we'll get there!  
> Let me know what you guys thought of it if you can, comments are treasured and they do make me dance! And write, too. While dancing :)
> 
> Peppermint Toads to everyone who left kudos, to krankykittie, ybriKnoswaD, Hermione4Life23, sunflower_swan, NiightKiitten17, and Kaarina_Riddle for the comments; and to  
> kittylover0707, Tokumei, orange_shirt287 for bookmarking the story!
> 
> Love you all! :)


	9. Chapter 9

**Falling Leaves**

**Disclaimer:** All publicly recognizable characters, settings, etc. are the property of their respective owners. The original characters and plot are the property of the author. The author is in no way associated with the owners, creators, or producers of any media franchise. No copyright infringement is intended.

* * *

When Professor Dumbledore had told her Harry's active link to Voldemort would be remedied, Hermione would never have suspected _that_ to be the solution. Having Professor Snape invade Harry's mind on a regular basis hardly seemed like a reasonable answer unless the Headmaster counted on them strangling each other to death. That would stop the dreams, to be sure, but she doubted anyone, apart from Voldemort himself, could consider it a desirable outcome.

Analyzing the situation more carefully, however, led her to the belief that the decision was far from completely daft, if still somewhat ill-advised. Voldemort wouldn't be gentle in his exploitation of Harry's thoughts if he had become aware of his access to them, and people could accuse Professor Snape of many things, Hermione herself believing him as quick to display displeasure as he was willing to protect students, yet being gentle in any way had never ranked amongst them. So Hermione tried practicing the mind-clearing exercises every night, hoping that, in doing so, she could encourage Harry to do the same.

Although, if she were being honest with herself, trying to get the Giant Squid to learn to tap dance would have yielded better results. If influence by example was something her friends were susceptible to, they would have begun to study for tests and finish their schoolwork in advance years ago, rendering the planner she had given them both for Christmas unnecessary. Despite that, Hermione sustained the practice - who knew when the skill would prove useful, and she couldn't claim it didn't help lessen the constant string of worry about Umbridge's schemes, Voldemort's plans, Harry's dreams, the Order's well-being, the Army's safety, Professor Dumbledore's positively maddening puzzles, Hagrid's probation, the O.W.L.'s nearness, and, most of all, Remus. Not only one, but both versions of him.

And Ronald had said it was impossible to feel that much at once.

The last set of worries could have been avoidable had present-Remus shown up at Sirius' house for Christmas as Hermione had hope-dreaded he would. Were he there, she would've somehow gotten up the nerve to ask him about her presence in his past, about why he had stopped showing, and worked out a way to deal with the awkwardness the conversation would engender, seeing as that, if there was one word that could summarize 'We've been meeting each other in the past and I have fallen hopelessly in love with you even though you most likely don't feel the same, not then and definitely not now', that word was _awkward._ Mortifying wasn't a bad fit either, on second thought.

Though before she could ask Mrs. Weasley, in the most disinterested manner she could affect, about Professor Lupin's whereabouts, Hermione had overheard Harry ask Sirius about him and Sirius' ensuing dismissal, claiming Order business. The news made her stomach lurch. She only hoped he hadn't taken over Mr. Weasley's duties. Harry's link might not work a second time, more so now that measures were being taken to sever it, and what would be of Remus if Voldemort struck once more, trying to obtain whatever lay behind the door?

Thus far, progress on it and on Dumbledore's riddle had proved paltry. Hermione had asked Harry to describe the mystery door five times, four times more than he wished to do, for any detail that might connect it to Dumbledore's words and Celtic culture. According to Harry, the door didn't have anything much, other than a round, centered gold handle, and a symbol he couldn't recall etched in its middle. She had shown him all the runes in existence, hoping one would spark recognition, but he had been unable to identify any as the unknown marking, and it all remained one more oddity on her growing list of them.

Well, until the day he came back from his first Occlumency lesson, that is.

"The Department of Mysteries? Are you sure, Harry?"

The three of them had sat closer together around the Library table, their voices hushed.

"It was there when Mr. Weasley escorted me to my hearing. That marking on the handle? It's the Ministry's seal. I relived the memory just now."

Ron leaned over the table, tossing a look around before speaking. "Dad says the people working there are called Unspeakables, no one knows what really happens there other than them."

Hm... Hermione tapped her quill against the parchment a few times for something to do as she processed the new information and tried to tie it to what she already knew. _'Some doors open and close as they should'_. Did it mean somehow that You-know-who wouldn't be allowed inside? That there was some protection, somehow connected to Lughnasadh and Samhain to keep him out? But then why had Professor Dumbledore seen the need to guard it?

"For what it's worth, it makes no sense." Hermione spared a glance at her friends, finding confusion mirrored in their faces. "Dumbledore's riddle, I mean, not the door. It _does_ stand to reason that whatever weapon Voldemort wants would have been developed there, perhaps by the Unspeakables themselves, especially if it didn't exist during the last war. But in what way would Halloween have anything to do with it?"

Harry piped up, "Maybe, for it to open, you need to rap on it and yell 'trick or treat'?"

There was a beat before Hermione snagged her closed DADA book from the table and smacked it against Harry's head. Honestly!

"I deserved that."

"Miss Granger!" The shrill, ear-piercing voice sounded right beside Hermione's ear and she almost jumped out of her skin. "Good Merlin, I would never have expected this kind of behavior from you!"

Oh, no. Absorbed as she was trying to puzzle things together, Hermione had missed the tell-tale click of shoes belonging to Hogwarts' vulture-like librarian. And, right at that moment, Hermione had become fresh - and quite dead - meat. "I'm terribly sorry, Madam Pince. It won't happen again."

And that would've been the end of it, accompanied perhaps by more high-pitched lectures and months of increased scrutiny from the older witch whenever Hermione stepped foot inside the Library.

"Don't worry, Madam Pince," Harry said, "I'm fine."

For the briefest moment, Hermione entertained the thought of whether her friend really was that dense or if he had done it as a provocation of sorts… When she turned to look at him, nothing in his expression pointed to the latter. Denseness it was, then. Her lips parted of their own accord with an involuntary huff, and she could feel her eyebrows almost meeting her hairline in disbelief. From her chair, she couldn't see Madam Pince's expression, but she could imagine it in detail, from the way the triangular band of her hat framed her mistrustful, narrowed black eyes to the thin, almost disappearing lines of her tightened mouth.

"I can see that, Mr. Potter. Do you know what isn't fine?" Hermione closed her eyes, screwed up her face, and drew up her shoulders. "The book! Go on, you three, gather your things and leave."

Letting out a long breath, Hermione placed her writing supplies and books inside her rucksack, caring to do so as gently as possible so as not to further provoke Madam Pince's temper. She kept her gaze straight ahead, ignoring the looks of the other occupants as she made her way towards the double doors, flanked by Harry and Ron. Once they were firmly closed behind the trio, Hermione adjusted the straps of her rucksack on her shoulders, whether to better accommodate the weight or steel herself, she couldn't tell.

"Bloody hell! I think this is the first time someone tossed Hermione out of a Library."

"Well observed, Ronald," There were times not unlike this one when Hermione wondered how her life at Hogwarts, academic and otherwise, would have been had the Sorting Hat placed her in Ravenclaw instead. Surely she wouldn't have found herself doing half the raving mad things she had done over the last five years, much less needing to badger her friends to follow the rules and study. More importantly, she was absolutely certain she would never, ever have found herself forced out of the Library. "Thank you for pointing that out."

Life as a Gryffindor was a gift that kept on giving, she supposed.

* * *

When Valentine's Day arrived, with a clearer sky than she had seen in quite a while, Hermione tried to stifle her wistful yearning for Remus, forbidding herself from even contemplating his motives. The ones her mind provided grew more outlandish the longer he failed to show, and Hermione was starting to run out of explanations to disguise how bereft his sudden non-attendance had left her feeling. She had been to the garden this morning already - had kept going almost every day since Remus had stopped showing - but did very little this time, staring at the plants without seeing them, the room too wide, too silent, and worse still, too empty without him. For someone rather timid and quiet, his presence had been radiant and nothing felt quite the same without its shine.

Hermione didn't feel quite the same without him.

Yet to even allow the tears pricking her eyes to fall and run their course down her face felt wrong. She had no right whatsoever to feel Remus' absence today any more acutely than she had all the others. Despite that, the silent tears were there all the same, and so were the twinges that shrunk her heart a little bit more each time. Although Hermione could no longer deceive herself about the nature of her feelings, or even their proper names, nothing seemed to indicate they were returned in any way.

When it came to the opposite sex, her experience was limited to her friendship with Harry and Ron, on one end, who up until last year hadn't considered her a girl at all; and Viktor, on the other, who had made his interest clear from the beginning, and had turned into a friend as a result of distance, not choice, at least on his part. Remus remained an enigma: he neither fit into one category nor the other and while Hermione could explain girls' feelings and motivations to Harry and Ron, she sometimes wished they could return the favor. Then again, that would imply telling them about the garden, Remus, and the time travel, and she had already decided against doing so. Somehow, she also doubted they could move past the fact that she had feelings for Remus Lupin, Harry's godfather's best friend and their former professor, long enough to be of any help.

Hermione had poked and prodded her breakfast long enough that it looked eaten at least in part, and tried to be happy for all the couples getting a trip to Hogsmeade, swallowing the bitter taste that all the doe-eyes and stolen kisses around her left on her mouth. Even if her feelings were returned in some measure, this wasn't a romantic comedy she would sometimes watch with her mum while eating popcorn. Remus would not show on Valentine's day to sweep her off her feet and have all their problems solved through love alone. Things were more complicated than that. Starting with, but not limited to, the fact that there were two versions of him - one who had disappeared without explanation, and the other who had never given any sign he remembered her. Not to mention Voldemort. It was ridiculous and preposterous and rather childish of her to even entertain thoughts that related to her love life when her actual life - and everybody else's - was at stake.

When Skeeter's letter arrived, she took it as a wake-up call. Her message gave her something else to think about, and though Hermione had never imagined she would feel grateful for anything coming from that cow, she was when it came to this. Some things took precedence over her hurting feelings, and Harry was at the top of that list. Whatever charitable thoughts she had for Rita vanished, however, in the face of her charming personality, but they got the task done. Afterward, Hermione did feel a bit guilty when Harry told her about his disastrous date with Cho, yet, in the end, only part of the fault rested on her shoulders. Cho's jealousy of her could prove to be a problem if not addressed, and there wasn't much Hermione could do about Harry's cluelessness until after the fact unless she took to standing nearby, whispering the right answers to him as if helping him to cheat a test. Letting them copy bits of her assignments was degrading enough.

Over the next few months, any happiness and relief Hermione had felt from the published interview on the Quibbler, from Hagrid having finally abided by her syllabus, and from having managed to conjure her otter Patronus from her memories of Remus were short-lived. Not only had that toad of a woman sacked Professor Trewlaney before the whole school - who, Hermione thought, despite her dislike for the witch and her ridiculous tea leaves, had done nothing to deserve such humiliation - but Grawp wasn't a variable she could have predicted.

Hermione didn't think it possible anyone could have - Hogwarts was enormous, surely, but hiding a _giant_? In the forest? Her worry for Hagrid mounted into full-blown panic. If Umbridge caught even a sniff of Grawp's presence, Hagrid would not only be sacked, he could be charged with deliberate endangerment of the students and staff and be removed from Hogwarts altogether. Imprisoned, even. There was no way the three of them would be able to sneak a full-grown giant out of the grounds the way they had with Norberta their first year, and Hermione, unlike Harry and Ron, was no longer under the illusion that they had managed to do so in secret. The Headmaster had known about it. Yet Professor Dumbledore wasn't here now, was he? Edgecombe's betrayal had seen to the discovery of their Army, and the damage fell to him, leaving them under the full, unbridled reign of Dolores Umbridge.

If things went sour - or, she should say, more so than they had already gone - they were on their own.

The one bright spot amidst it all had been, to Hermione's surprise, the twins' shenanigans. The fireworks alone had been a thing of wonder. And if she had not only closed both eyes when it came to Fred and George but encouraged their behavior... Well, what could she say? She was in love with a Marauder, after all - it was bound to screw up her rule-following at some point. And the fact that she really, truly despised Umbridge and the twin's actions allowed Hermione to sit back and watch while she got sent into a flat spin?

That was just further incentive.

* * *

_February 1995 - Number 12, Grimmauld's Place_

Sirius ran two fingers over the open pages of one of the books lying atop the dining table, the wood barely visible under them, and its few clear spots peppered with half-drank cups of tea. "And you're sure this… whatever it is... will work?"

"It will, Sirius, because it has to," Remus told him, rubbing a hand over his face. "It's the closest I've gotten to a solution."

"A solution, you say." Remus watched as he picked up one of the books - either Callihan's or Turner's, they had all started to blend in Remus' mind at some point. "To what problem, Moony? We're brothers, you and I. I want to help you. But doing shit without as much as an explanation isn't something I've done since we were boys."

"Ah, thinking before doing, are we? Well, I'd say you've matured, Sirius, but we both know it isn't true."

"It's good to see you're as bleeding hilarious as ever," His words notwithstanding, Sirius shot him a grin, his eyes glinting. "Have you? Matured?"

Remus lifted the corner of his mouth. "Not as much as I should've, I'm afraid. But a little more than you all the same."

"Well, you were always the smarter one."

"You do know that, if this wasn't important to me, I wouldn't be asking."

"I know. And I hope you achieve whatever it is you're aiming for."

"So do I... trust me."

"I do trust you. That might end up being the death of me someday, almost was with Wormtail... Yet you still can't tell me. Is my life not worth one measly detail?"

"Don't be dramatic. It doesn't become you."

"Of course it becomes me. And we did this dance already... you dispairing over a secret, us discovering it. Remember how it went the last time?"

"With you sending Snape my way during a full moon?"

Sirius rolled his eyes and chose another volume to peruse. "Not that part, and I apologized. You know, all these books seem rather romantic to me. In a bit of a twisted way. This wouldn't be about a bird, would it?" Something in Remus' expression must have changed without him being any the wiser, because Sirius' sobered, his tone no longer playful, "It is. You've met someone."

A fresh cup of tea wouldn't have gone amiss, but Remus had used all the leaves already.

"I can't tell you about it unless… If this works - _when_ it works, I promise you'll hear everything, Padfoot. The wonderful, the horrible." At the last word, Sirius' face fell, and he placed a hand on Remus' shoulder. Remus looked away, his last words were but a whispered secret, "Whatever you want to know."

"Alright, Moony. Let's do this thing."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Hey guys! Longer chapter this time, yay!
> 
> I just want to point out that I had zero control over the banter between those two. It was supposed to be a serious (no pun intended) scene, but what could we expect? Those two are troublemakers. Hope you enjoyed it :)
> 
> As always, I'll be over the moon if you can spare some time to let me know your thoughts!
> 
> Licorice Wands to everyone who left kudos, to hiboudeluxe, CatherinaWolf, Sparkybish, sunflower_swan, grungyspacepirate, krankykittie, ybriKnoswaD, and NiightKiitten17 for the comments. And to AbAb_Angel, Devora, LightInDarkness, and AvahHoshigaki for bookmarking the story.
> 
> You guys are wonderful :)


	10. Chapter 10

**Falling Leaves**

**Disclaimer** : All publicly recognizable characters, settings, etc. are the property of their respective owners. The original characters and plot are the property of the author. The author is in no way associated with the owners, creators, or producers of any media franchise. No copyright infringement is intended.

* * *

_February 1995 - Grimmauld's Place_

The crash of light disappeared as suddenly as it had burst into existence. If not for the way it seared his closed eyelids, he would have chalked the whole thing up to a bout of wishful thinking or to a fit of delusion. When he opened his eyes, though, the utter… normalcy of the Library at Number Twelve struck him as an oddness. Despite the seeming blast, no books or shelves were out of place, none of the long chaises and dark sofas were upturned, nor were the sumptuous tapestries singed in any way. He breathed in as he took a step back. Everything lay exactly as it should.

It took Remus a moment to realize that he was the thing that had changed.

It had worked. Or, at least, this part had gone according to plan. The results wouldn't be clear, not now and not for a while to come, but this… This marked both the ending and the beginning - nearly two decades of self-imposed patience giving way to resuming life at last. Remus felt… free. Like waking up from a foggy sleep one day and feeling you had your entire future ahead of you. That fate was molten metal ready to take form instead of a set of unbreakable constraints. Yet, in a way, a part of him also felt lost. A few months more to go, a few steps more to take... and what, then?

That uncertainty was overwhelming to a certain extent didn't come as a surprise. There were too many variables involved, and he could neither afford any relief nor succumb to any despair. Hope filled him and fear plagued him in equal measure, a perfect symmetry that led him nowhere in particular. Above all, one question remained, seizing his heart in a Devil's Snare grip, any struggle against it only getting it to tighten its grasp.

If everything worked out for the best, how would Hermione react?

"So… _that_ was it?" Sirius' question rescued him out of the endless maze of his own mind. Remus snapped his gaze forward, taking in the expression on his best friend's face. If times were different, if their load was smaller and their shoulders lighter, it would've likely triggered a laugh. Ever since they had met, Sirius had always been the hardest one to baffle. He took derailed plans and unforeseen consequences in stride as if they had been part of the plan all along. Surprising him proved to be a rather comical feat. "This thing of yours… it worked?"

"I have no way to know yet, but all signs seem to indicate so. Thank you, I appreciate your help."

"It was your pleasure."

At that, Remus did chuckle. He shook his head and reached for the ritual's book lying on the armrest of the nearest sofa. He had read it a hundred times already, but it was best to be prepared. When it came to meddling with time and other, even more fickle things, one could never be too careful. He had read three paragraphs and started a fourth before the questions came.

"Is it me?" Sirius asked.

A full minute. Remarkable, really.

"Are you… what, Sirius?"

"That you're in love with?"

Remus' only response was a quirk of an eyebrow. Trust Sirius to fire away brazen theories shaped as questions when he was told he couldn't have the answers. Or, Remus should say, especially when he was told he couldn't have them.

"What? I know you're not blind Remus. I'm handsome. You know it, I obviously do, and the whole Wizarding World would as well, if not for that tasteless photograph the Ministry chose to divulge everywhere. My hair looked too dull and ratty in that."

Remus put his hands in his pockets. "As opposed to your other features, which yelled bright and cheery."

"But it wouldn't be your fault, you know," Sirius said, Remus' sarcasm falling on deaf ears. "My charming personality is, at the best of times, hard to resist. You made a commendable effort these last twenty-five years." His monologue stopped long enough for him to look at Remus, and Padfoot rolled his eyes. "Fine, not me then, judging by that look. I wouldn't have minded at all, it would certainly give Mother a final turn in her grave. But whatever you say. Or, I guess, don't say, in this case.

"However," Closing his eyes for a moment, Remus pinched the bridge of his nose in an attempt to stave off a looming headache. He had thought that would've been the end of it, at least for the moment, seeing as the ritual had taken its toll on their magic and bodies, but he should've known better than to expect it. In no world did 'Sirius Orion Black' and 'restraint' ever go together. "And don't take this the wrong way, Moony, I wouldn't ask if I wasn't concerned, but would you happen to… you know, does she - or he, whatever suits you best - do they maybe go somehow like…" Sirius folded his coat and shirt sleeves over his forearms, reached both arms forward bending them at the elbows, and curled his hands into the poorest impression of claws Remus had ever witnessed, and he had lived years as a werewolf with young, smart-arsed friends to see many. As if the ensemble didn't look ridiculous enough on the supposedly noble heir of the Most Ancient House of Black, Sirius puckered his mouth and sucked a lungful of air noisily through it.

Given the circumstances, Remus had been prepared to ignore his first conclusion - Sirius had always had a penchant for narcissism that he could never quite relate to, yet had always found more entertaining than annoying - but the second one gave him pause. Were those truly the only options available for him? Sirius as the self-proclaimed epitome of handsomeness, or the ugliest, darkest creature in existence?

"No, Padfoot, she's _not_ a dementor."

"Huh. Then I have run out of ideas about what the bloody hell you're doing. I thought, with the angst and the hush and the, you know, thingie—but if not, then I'm sorry to have to tell you this because I know you didn't date when we were younger and we clearly didn't mentor you properly, but here's a tip: all this? Not the way to go about it, mate. Lily… Lily would've known the right thing to tell you, you know. Not James, though, that poor sod was probably as bad at it as you." Sirius' playfulness faded and his gaze roamed, looking anywhere and everywhere but at Remus. With a bob of his Adam's apple, he made a few fitful, cut short movements as if he'd grown too bony for his own skin, none of his previous confidence present. When he spoke, his voice held a strained quality to it that made it sound croaky and unused, "I'm in the mood for some Firewhisky. Care to join?"

Remus stared at his friend for a moment, then lowered his gaze. The headache had arrived, accompanied by a sudden tightness in his chest that he knew had nothing to do with the ritual. "I'll fetch it."

* * *

December 1975

All throughout November and the first twenty days of December, Remus missed Hermione with a ferocity he didn't know he possessed, not outside a full moon, at least. Happiness seeped away from him as if he'd been standing atop a frozen lake and, without notice, the ice beneath his feet had cracked and given in, submerging him in freezing cold water. Remnants of warmth still remained here and there, ebbing gradually away from him as he treaded and fought against the water.

Even though Remus understood, on a logical level, that Hermione wouldn't show, his hopeful heart still raced at every turn and corner, like it would find her there, in a righteous fury, ready to point out how awful an idea putting together a forbidden club had been and how foolish of her to give it any credence, yet having managed to find another way to travel to his time despite having been expelled. Perhaps even a permanent one. During that time, Remus would've taken her outrage and her indignation any day over the nothingness of silence that threatened to overcome him. But every time she failed to show, a little bit of him got lost to disappointment and coldness. The coin she had given him failed to convey his messages, just as she had predicted, but he clung to it nonetheless.

After December 21st, though, the numbness had settled, the final layer of ice congealed above him, trapping him underneath, and dragging his unresistant self to the bottom.

It was, after all, for the better that she hadn't returned.

Although in the end, it was not due to ice that his opinion had swayed. The cold would have provided a sort of morbid soothing, but all he felt was the unbearable heat as he woke up to his face on fire. At first, he wasn't sure he had awakened at all, his sight being met by complete darkness, so much so that he couldn't determine whether his eyes were even open to begin with. The pain of his transformation should've ended by now, right? Or had it only started? He blinked to try to reorient himself, feeling and groping at what lay below him with both hands, his fingers stiff and tendons stretched. A mattress. And he spotted, when his gaze became used to the darkness, a wall nearby. No, not a wall: curtain sheets.

With a lot of effort, Remus pushed himself to a sitting position. That's when he noticed the source of the burning: something was stuck to his face, partially obscuring his view. He reached for it, intent on ripping whatever it was out, but it refused to come off. Remus slid his fingers over it, feeling the fabric stretch over his left eye and across his nose, cheek, and jaw, his skin flaming below it. The strip of cloth circled around the back of his head and all the way to where it started, a bit of it sticking out, and Remus caught the material between his fingers. It was neither soft nor rough, but the threads were spaced. His lips peeled from one another as he parted them, his mouth feeling as sandy as his throat was parched.

Bandages.

His heart picked up, and he swung his head around, trying to make out his surroundings. From his one uncovered eye, he made out three large lumps that lay unmoving near what he now knew was a cot and something - a cabinet - next to the cot. He dragged his legs over the edge, pushing away at what he assumed was a sheet when it tangled around his feet, his muscles moaning in protestation.

The lumps, he could now discern, were occupied chairs.

"Prongs? Padfoot? Peter? Hey, wake up!" Remus called out in rasp, urgent tones, "Who's there? Wormtail! Wake up!"

There was a mumble from the one on the left, a muttered 'Mmm sorry, Lily', but nothing else.

Remus pulled himself out of the bed, but his legs failed him and he collapsed atop the closest occupant.

"Merlin's saggy… Remus?"

"James. James, what happened? What happened to me?"

A whispered word later and white light blinded him. He covered his eye with one hand, the spot of light disorienting after pitch-black darkness.

"Oh, Remus… Here." He felt James as he heaved him back onto the cot. "I… No, don't touch it, Madam Pomfrey said you'll make it worse if you do. I'll call her, give me a minute."

Alone in the dark with his sadistic imagination, the minutes it took the Mediwitch to arrive felt like dragging hours, and Remus' short nails had dug half-moons on his thighs deep enough that he had nearly drawn blood by the time she arrived.

The torches lit on all at once, and Madam Pomfrey took the room by storm, bustling here and there, grabbing potions from the cabinet nearby. "Drink this, Remus, dear. It'll help with the pain."

The commotion woke the others who, after a few drowsy blinks, joined James near the half-pulled privacy curtains as Remus was submitted to diagnosing spells. Their expressions and muteness didn't bode well.

"What happened?" Remus repeated. In addition to the burning, cold sweat covered his hands and trickled down the back of his neck.

"There was an incident, dear." Madam Pomfrey said.

The feeling of having swallowed a bowl of live slugs, now revolting in his stomach, took over. "What-what kind of incident?"

"I think it's best if your friends explain. And apologize." Obstructed as his sight was, he nearly missed it as the matron shot the three Marauders a look, and they hunched even further under her gaze. "I'll be back in a moment with a Dreamless Potion."

It was Padfoot who took a step forward.

"I… I'm sorry." It was the first time Remus heard these words come out of Sirius' mouth. "It was all my fault, Moony. Snivellus kept nosing around, so I told him…. but I didn't think he would actually-I didn't imagine he would go, I swear. And then you... It was my fault. I… Madam Pomfrey says there's nothing she can do, they will heal, in time, as werewolf-inflicted wounds do, but…" His voice lowered until it reached a whisper, "But they won't go away."

Understanding hit him like a wall of bricks. No. No, this could not be happening. Not to him. Yet the pain told a different tale. He led his hand to the bandages once more: the monster had branded him. Like… like cattle. It wasn't enough that Remus had to relinquish control over his body and mind once a month, that... _thing_ had to make him carry its ugliness every second of every day for the rest of his life. A mark of his _heinousness_.

"—Please forgive me." It was the end of a speech he hadn't cared enough to hear. _Apologies_. His father had apologized, too, hadn't he? Holding a four-year-old him - much too young to comprehend what had happened to him - in his arms, tears sliding down his face while he sobbed his regret. Apologies changed so very little. They weren't the ones who had to bear the consequences for their actions, were they? _He_ was.

Unlike Sirius, James and Peter had remained silent since Madam Pomfrey's departure, but Remus looked at each and every one of them before he spoke, "I want to be alone."

"Remus, I…"

That close after a full moon, a little bit of the wolf lingered. It felt Remus' anger and fed off of it, showing when he banged his hand on the cabinet, "LEAVE!"

The three of them flinched.

"Come on, Sirius. Give him some time…" James said, wrapping an arm around Sirius' shoulders and guiding him out.

Peter moved to follow but stopped before crossing the curtain. His eyes flitted back and forth between James and Sirius' backs and Remus, lying prostrate on the cot. "Will you-will you be okay?"

Would he be okay? An ugly, deranged laugh escaped Remus' lips. WOULD HE BE OKAY?

"I'm alive, aren't I? I'll survive just fine."

Peter scurried off after the other two, and Remus could still hear their voices in the distance.

"Fucking, fuckity fuck! How stupid am I, Prongs? I did this. _Me_ , my arrogance. Perhaps I'm no better than any other Black."

At that moment, Remus thought him the worst of them.

* * *

When Lily showed the next afternoon, Remus' mood was less mercurial, having simmered from rage to… something else, on the opposite side of the spectrum. Lily was perhaps the only other person at Hogwarts whose friend's betrayal had caused scarring. Hers had not been physical, but it was there, plain to see all the same, whenever people looked at her with pity. Remus had been there when Snape called her a… he couldn't even bear to think the word, much less say it. Almost the entirety of Hogwarts had borne witness to it.

Once the bandages were removed and he was allowed a mirror - a non-talking one, and under Madam Pomfrey's supervision - Remus lifted it and watched as the scabbed over, disfiguring gashes on his face screamed at him on the reflexive surface, a permanent reminder of what he truly was, as if he could have, even for a second, forgotten.

He had no concept of how much time had passed and hadn't noticed her arrival until the mirror was gently removed from his hand, and placed on top of the cabinet beside his cot. Lily stood beside him and grabbed his hand.

"Oh, Remus. If Professor Dumbledore hadn't already, I would assign you detention myself! How could you go with them to the Forbidden Forest, of all places, and at night, too? Of all the stupid ideas... I know they're your friends, but it's harebrained ideas like that that could get you killed."

Remus nodded slowly, looking forward without seeing anything beyond the hollowness in his chest and the bone-deep tiredness that threatened to overtake him. He heard her voice but not her words, sounding as though white-noise in the background of his own thoughts.

She must have said much more, but he only found his presence of mind when she let go of his hand and moved as though to leave.

"Lily," He called, and she turned back to face him. "Could I ask you to be honest? How—" Remus swallowed. "How bad does it look?"

"She won't mind." Lily's eyes softened, "And if she does, she doesn't deserve you."

Hermione.

He hadn't thought about Hermione.

* * *

Things hadn't been the same during the last days before the Christmas holidays. He hadn't meant to torture Sirius for what he had done, nor any of the others. But perhaps he had - a sordid part of him felt avenged by it, by the crestfallen looks and their shared misery. Resentment and anger had piled over time and Remus had no outlet, no healthy coping mechanism to work with, and it grew in a vicious cycle. Life felt like it was taking a piss, it gave very little and took away so much more. Every little thing he had left.

The secret, he now believed, was to not care. To expect nothing good and be prepared for the worst possible.

For the first time in five years, Remus stepped out of the Hogwarts Express alone. His parents awaited him at the station. When he drew closer to them, his mother wrapped her arms around him.

"Oh, darling…"

He must look a sight. Butterfly closures held the edges of his skin together, the angry red gashes crossing his face eyebrow to cheek to chin. No longer was the jagged, always at least a little inflamed bite scar on his thigh the only cursed wound he sported.

"I'm fine, mum. Dad."

His father patted him on his back, a grave expression on his face. "Dumbledore wrote to us. Said it was an accident."

"Yeah, an accident."

His mother traced the side of his face with her thumb, the touch gentle enough he almost didn't feel it. "Your father will go for some pain potions once we're home, ours are bound to be a little stale. And then I'll bake you a chocolate cake."

"You don't have to, mum," Remus said, his arms still around her. "I told you, I'm fine."

"Then it'll be an everything's fine chocolate cake."

He managed the tiniest of smiles. "Okay."

"Good, if you insisted on me not making it, I would have to think things were very wrong indeed. I've never seen you refuse chocolate before."

"Yeah." He lowered his arms and turned to his father. "Can we just... go?"

"Sure, son. Grab hold."

Remus and Hope held Lyall's arm and, with a pop, they arrived at the cottage. It was quaint, yet cozy, the furniture well-loved enough that it had lost its freshness, but not its comfort. Ever since Remus had started to attend Hogwarts, the need to move around had vanished. A son who was only sick a few days during the holidays drew much less attention than one who had a different illness every month, and his parents had settled in a cottage on the outskirts of a forest, removed enough not to have neighbors anywhere in sight.

"And Amra?" His father asked.

"I asked her to stay at Hogwarts."

"A vacation?" His father winced. "I'm sure she'll hate it."

"It's only for a few days."

Truth was, after he had been cleared to leave the Infirmary the day before, Amra had taken one look at his face and her ashen-pink face turned purple. He had never before seen an angry house-elf up until that moment, and between preventing her from hurting herself for not being there - to which he had repeated, over and over, that her being there for him was impossible and would only rattle the wolf further - Remus let slip a short recount of what had taken place. And he had found himself in the uncomfortable position of not defending, but explaining Sirius' behavior to her, lest that glint in her eye turned murderous. Betrayed as he felt by Sirius, he didn't wish for his death, nor did he wish for his parents to learn what had happened, so he asked Amra to stay at Hogwarts for the short holiday.

Once his father was sent on some errands and the cake was baking in the oven, Remus' mother stood by the chair he was sitting on, placed both hands on his shoulders, and looked him in the eye.

She said nothing, yet the tears came unbidden and uncontrolled.

"Let it out, my sweet, sweet boy. You're safe, now."

"Why? Why me, mum? I was a monster already, I just… I didn't need a fucking reminder. I can't even bear to look at myself."

"You listen very carefully to me, Remus John Lupin. You're not a monster - you're my son. You are kind and sweet and smart as they come." She removed a handkerchief from her coat's pocket and held it out for him. "Now, come… Blow your nose."

"I'm not five."

"I'll be the judge of that. Although you'd be the tallest five-year-old I've ever met."

Remus swiped the tears with the back of his hands.

"Have it your way, then."

They moved to the grey sofa and sat in silence while she ran her fingers through his hair, the gesture calming. He had almost fallen asleep when she spoke again, "Would you like to help me with the garden while we wait? I've got new seeds and bulbs to plant and your father charmed the garden to protect it from the cold."

The mention of a garden brought back the memories that came attached to Hermione. "I… I met someone."

"You did, did you?"

"By accident. I shouldn't have gotten involved with her. I'm… And she's…"

"I doubt any girl will ever love you more than me, Remus. But if you tell me you really like her, I'll make an effort to share you."

"Yes, I mean, no. I don't think I'll see her again. Not for a long time."

"But you would like to? Darling, when someone is important enough to you, really, truly so, nothing is insurmountable. Your father and I came from different worlds, I used to believe magic only existed in fairytales, and your father… well, your father stupefied my toaster the first time he saw it. He had, after all, saved me from a Boggart, what was an evil muggle contraption that clinked and shot bread in the face of that?" She laughed and tapped his nose with one finger. "A lot of it was new and exhilarating, but as much fun as we had, not everything was a bed of roses. It took effort, from both sides, but things worked out in the end. My point is, some people are worth waiting for. Is she?"

"Yes. Yes, she is."

"There you go, then. You wait until the time is right."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh, I'm SO SORRY for this chapter! I promise I'm not heartless, this was just a "write about Remus' scar" bullet point on my outline and then I started writing it and... and then heartbreak and pain (a lot of it, considering this is my longest chapter ever) came out. BUT I solemnly swear not to cause young-Remus any more suffering! Here, take a hug! *hugs*
> 
> Also, I wanted to let you guys know I won't update this story next week. I want to post a Tie Your Heart chapter next weekend and I get a little burnout from trying to write both at the same time, so bear with me for a bit. A new Falling Leaves chapter will be up on November 8th, though :)
> 
> On a side note, I had written the most amazing sentence to include in this chapter, but sadly it got lost. RIP cleverly crafted sentence T_T  
> I hope you enjoyed it and let me know your thoughts if you can :)
> 
> Cauldron cakes to everyone who left kudos, to hiboudeluxe, Sparkybish, krankykittie, ybriKnoswaD, grungyspacepirate, CatherinaWolf, SecretGardenParty, daisybouquet, and sunflower_swan for the comments and to Sparkybish for bookmarking the story!
> 
> Happy Halloween in advance to all of you awesome people! :)


	11. Chapter 11

**Falling Leaves**

**Disclaimer** : All publicly recognizable characters, settings, etc. are the property of their respective owners. The original characters and plot are the property of the author. The author is in no way associated with the owners, creators, or producers of any media franchise. No copyright infringement is intended.

* * *

Hermione had never before been faced with the magnitude of her own mortality. She wasn't conceited or foolish enough to believe death wouldn't come for her, but being trapped inside the Ministry, caged in by adult Death Eaters with neither the Order nor Professor Dumbledore being any the wiser… It was perhaps the first time she had noticed how very feeble the spark of life seemed amidst the darkness of death, and there was nothing she could do to stop the mounting terror that accompanied such realization.

Seeing the Ministry completely silent and devoid of any staff apart from the disembodied voice that reverberated through the empty halls had ignited an acute, bothersome feeling inside her stomach as they pressed on. They were not at Hogwarts anymore. And she had an inkling Dorothy and Toto wouldn't have liked this place.

Far too filled with adrenaline and defiance as Hermione had been, she had failed to consider the odds of having six teenagers face a veritable army of Voldemort's followers, not to mention the wizard himself, one of, if not the most powerful wielder of Dark Magic to ever live. Her chances of making out alive ranged from small to non-existent. In fact, all members of their ragtag little group - some more intimate and of adventures far-reaching than others, but absolutely none of which she would have risked in a fool's errand had she pondered things better - might succumb to horrifying, excruciating deaths.

If not for the hormones and rebellion of their age, and perhaps, in her case in particular, even an innate fear of not-belonging that crept up from time to time, she would have given this a great deal more thought than she had. Would have thought to at least warn someone - _anyone_ \- before taking off on the back of a Thestral she couldn't even see. Would have reasoned that one life, however cherished and important it was, might not be worth the loss of six others. And though she didn't know Sirius well enough, Hermione somehow felt she was letting him down more by allowing Harry to come to his aid than she would have if she had stopped him by any means necessary. As she had been doing with the nagging of her consciousness ever since they left Hogwarts, however, she pushed that thought away and focused on keeping up with the others.

For what it was worth - which ought to be very little - the analytical, detached part of Hermione was glad the mystery of the riddled door would come to an end at last.

Except of course that small consolation, too, would be taken away from her. When the door to the Department of Mysteries opened without needing any of the knowledge on Celtic traditions she had gathered over the past few months, Hermione wished she would live long enough to throttle Professor Dumbledore. She had even asked Professor Vector for more books on the subject, hoping to be better prepared when things inevitably went sideways. Then they reached the room of the many doors, and she retracted her wish, only to reinstate it soon after.

Next time Professor Dumbledore decided to be crypticly well-meaning, she would make sure to ask for some clarifications. Which, when it came to her, meant posing a million and one questions.

Prior to Harry's dream, Hermione had known trouble of some sort was imminent for some time now. In her experience, it always was, and the past few months hadn't boded well at all. Things had changed and escalated ever since Umbridge had become Headmistress, yet Hermione hadn't expected it would be anything related to Sirius, of all people, that would land them in trouble. But Harry had been unable to locate him at Number Twelve, and so, after leading the toad as prey to the Centaurs, something Hermione only felt marginally bad about, they had mounted on invisible, flying creatures and set off to place themselves exactly where Voldemort wanted them.

Such belief steamed from the fact that, as time dragged on and they made their way in between the tall shelves full of greyish glass globes, it became clear that this was not a rescue mission like any assigned by the old Order to witches and wizards more than capable to defend themselves or seen in spy stories. It was, instead, a poorly planned out - if one was generous enough to call it planned at all - confrontation that bordered on suicidal and was weaved in a trap and all of this didn't occur to her - not in a fully conscious state, at least - until they found themselves in the midst of it, enemy wands drawn and trained at them.

The one time she fully embodied the Gryffindor spirit, and the reward for her troubles would be death. A noble death, perhaps, if such a thing existed - they would fight to the last of their strength, there was no hint of doubt about it - but Hermione was under no delusion that it wouldn't be an utter massacre. There was, after all, defeat, and then there was carnage in its goriest form. The D.A. would fight to incapacitate and to defend - _stupefies, protegos, expelliarmus_... But the others? The others would torture and maim and delight in the screams until none of them was left breathing.

So they ran, shouted spells, took cover, then ran, shouted more and hid, and all the while a wet sort of coldness crept up Hermione's spine and down her arms until it reached her hands, forcing her to tighten her grip on her wand or risk losing it. The air seemed much too heavy to go past her nostrils and what little managed through lacked enough oxygen to maintain both her body and her focus.

So when the spell traveled through air and landed on her torso, she was propelled backward by its force alone, the oppressive weight of darkness crawling and whirling all around her, and at that moment Hermione found herself thinking not of the goals she wouldn't achieve, nor of the knowledge she wouldn't acquire. She thought, instead, of the people she would never again _see_ , the faces that would be swallowed by death. They flashed before her watery eyes in the millisecond that it took her to land on the ground.

There were the loving ones of her parents.

Harry and Ronald's as they looked at each other and let laughter break free.

The entirety of the Weasley's smiling as though for a photograph.

Hagrid's, as his eyes shone whenever he got his hands on a unique, and certainly dangerous, creature.

Viktor's, with its strong, almost harsh features. Neville's shining with his newfound confidence after the D.A. meetings, and Luna's, with her dreamy eyes and silly accessories.

The ones of Professors McGonagall, Dumbledore, Flitwick, Sprout, Vector, Burbage. All of them either sober, soft, or proud. And Professor Snape's, too, though it changed in her mind's eye between either severe or displeased. A rather subtle difference she had learned to spot over the years.

Her fellow Gryffindors' mischievous ones and the Order members', which had always struck her with their unwavering loyalty.

And then…. Then there was Remus'. Unlike the others, he had a set: the boy's face, with the rare and therefore precious half-smile she had come to look forward to seeing, and the man's, with its understated charm and the gleam of undisguised intelligence in his eyes.

Tears escaped through the corners of her eyes as the collision with the ground hit her like an implosion. Of all of them, Remus was the only one who had no clue whatsoever of how much he meant to her. If only she had sent that blasted letter instead of being too much of a coward and allowing it to sink to the bottom of her trunk, he would know that, for her, what they had had meant so much more than he could fathom.

Her last thoughts went to the garden they had been growing together. It had been sheer luck that Hermione had chosen to cast a self-contained atmosphere charm before the O.W.L.s started. But as she felt unconsciousness tug at her senses, she wondered to whom she had left it. Young Remus would only ever see his garden, and present-Remus would likely never step foot inside it ever again. And in those fractions of a second before every single sense ceased to work, Hermione made the connection: the door professor Dumbledore had talked about was likely the time-traveling gate of the garden.

Pity she likely wouldn't live to test that theory. And thus she found that, when faced with death, the thing that hurt more was not the way you were killed. It was the regrets you took along and the feelings that faded with you.

And hers burned behind her eyelids and her heart as she closed her eyes for the last time.

* * *

When they opened once more of their own accord, it happened in concomitance to a chest-heaving gasp, something she immediately regretted. Her ribcage contracted, closing into itself and crushing all her organs into a jumbled mess that stuttered and lurched and threatened to stop. Her torso upreared from where her body lay without her control, and a force of some sort dragged her back by her shoulders, restraining her movements. She could see very little over the haze of pain and heat, her thoughts spaced and senseless, and when her eyes focused on something, it was an image she could hardly process.

Remus was looking at her, his expression one she couldn't place, but that had caused a bag of stones to sink to the bottom of where her stomach should be nonetheless. And something inside her broke, because her heart knew why before her mind could think it, but then a viscous liquid reached her lips and oblivion brought her peace once more.

The next few days - if they were indeed days and not weeks or months - went by in a disconnected manner. Sometimes it would be dark, others bright. Sometimes she would be alone, others in company. Sometimes awareness would set in, and then she would crave for the others when it didn't. The only constant throughout it all was the dull pain in her chest. And it hurt and ached and itched and she wished she could crawl into herself to not to feel it, but it was _there,_ the mangled skin, it was hers and she could never rip it off.

After days of continued treatment, her mouth could no longer discern taste – too many potions were being forced down her throat on a regular basis, all of them atrocious, and the expression on Professor Snape's face grew more haggard as he brought them until he stopped showing. Tears would gather in her eyes at times and Hermione didn't know what they were for. For having lived, she supposed. From wishing, at the times the pain overtook her common sense, that she had died.

Until the time came that the tears were no longer for herself.

At first, they had kept the truth from her. She had asked about Harry and Ron in between bouts of consciousness, of course, and had been assured they were fine, but no other information was provided. And then she overheard the whispers, the news that traveled from mouth to mouth, gaining different, exaggerated details each time.

Sirius Black was dead.

So Hermione cried. For Sirius himself, for Harry. And then the sight of Remus she was half-certain had not been a conjuration of her own mind made sense. The reason she had failed to identify his expression, other than the searing pain that hindered her mind, had been because she had never seen fury etched on his face before. Not even when his secret had been divulged, first by Hermione herself at the Shrieking Shack, then by Professor Snape to the whole school. Remus had resigned, surely, but he held no ill will towards Professor Snape for telling it and didn't seem particularly mad about it. Disappointed and sad, perhaps, but never enraged. Yet now...

The sinking feeling she had felt had been justified. Not once had he shown to visit her, not since she saw - or hallucinated - his presence. But then it was no wonder Remus had been avoiding her.

The painful truth was that, while Hermione couldn't have known Sirius would die, she had known everything else.

James and Lily's deaths.

Peter's betrayal.

And she had allowed him to suffer through it all for the sake of preserving the future. Her future.

He really ought to hate her and she couldn't blame him for it. What sort of friend did it make her?

So when the new school year began, she wasn't quite sure what led her to seek the garden and Remus out. It felt like a trickery to meet young Remus again, who couldn't possibly know how her actions - or rather her inaction - would impact his life. Yet she trudged through the pathway that led to the garden, pushing any moral quandaries that kept making their presence known aside and put Professor Dumbledore's theory to the test.

When she entered the room, she was met by a picture-perfect garden. The charm had held, the self-sustained micro-climate generating tiny dark grey clouds above the blooming flowers and greenery. The multitude of plants, both those she had planted with Remus and the ones she had done so alone, had survived intact - and shall she say it, trived - even without her care.

Hermione did a little here and there, while chanting a feverish litany in the back of her mind, comprised of two words:

_Come back._

And when she wore herself out, a fairly easy feat ever since the battle at the Ministry and one Madam Pomfrey assured her would sort itself out in time, Hermione sat down next to her rucksack on the floor and placed her head atop it, just to rest her eyes a little.

* * *

It took Remus a moment to realise that the garden he had entered wasn't his own. Plants, herbs, and flowers - more than half of them in bloom - were everywhere around, though not quite in the order they had been. Yet even with the fullness of the greenery the small plot of soil they had cultivated together remained marked by the little fence they had placed to protect it from the weeds. When understanding hit in its entirety, his blood sped inside his veins, his gaze darting all around until it found a small figure asleep on the ground, her back against the same wall they had leaned on to watch the butterflies almost a year ago.

She looked so peaceful and the ache inside his chest from missing her was such that the sight drew him nearer without conscious thought. He stared at her, at her wild hair and the curve of her nose and the darkness of her eyelashes against her fair skin... A strange yet not unsettling sense of perfect peace set in as his blood flow slowed and the muscles he hadn't noticed had clenched relaxed. Regardless of how little time they had spent together, she had always managed to calm him as though a melodical lullaby, though it had taken its absence for him to acknowledge its previous presence. And balming as the sight of Hermione - one he hadn't contemplated in such a long time and hadn't expected to for a lot more to come - was, the feeling didn't last.

He had to leave. Before she woke up, he should make himself scarce and never return. Stupid though it was, he didn't believe he could do it. And he hardly even knew what he meant by 'it'.

The deceit about his lycanthropy had been by omission alone thus far when it came to her, yet it was now laced in actual lies. He could just tell her his scarring was the result of a prank, the same explanation they had given the entire school as cover. According to their little tale, he had acquired the scars on his face as the result of a run-in with a deadly creature while he, James, Sirius, and Peter were exploring the Forbidden Forest unauthorized. They had barely escaped with their lives, but the creature had had a much worse fate. Or so the story went.

But then he couldn't. Remus had not minded the lie all that much, nor what everyone thought of his new marks, not quite as raw as they had been before the summer, yet still raised and red. What he had minded- had dreaded- was what her reaction would be to them. Maybe leaving would be better than lying. It certainly seemed better than telling her the truth and facing her aghast rejection.

He had never told her about his condition. Had never considered needing to- they were friends, yes, but he hadn't told the Marauders either, they learned on their own. And despite Remus' feelings, there was nothing romantic about their relationship, of course, nothing that justified having to warn her. They were good friends if almost always out of touch, with similar interests, and who happened to have other friends with an inexplicable tendency to get into trouble and no excuse other than "it's in a Gryffindor's nature to do so". That was all there was to it. Yet something in his chest rebelled at the thought of walking away.

There were arguments for staying, too. Being a time-traveler, Hermione would have seen his injuries before and might let the subject lie, right? Unless, that was, if his future-self had found a way to glamour the affected tissue and she had never been aware of them. The prospect gave him hope. His current self so far hadn't. And then, the best argument for staying was Hermione herself. With everything that Remus had seen in the Wizarding World, she was the most magical thing he ever laid eyes on. Could he really live with himself having left her behind? Having turned his back on the one thing that escaped his knowledge of adjectives, it was so beyond mere words?

In the end, his inner debate had lasted long enough that, when he focused on her face again, her eyes had opened.

"You came."

And he found he was not ready. Not ready to be deceitful or truthful or anything else in between, so the words that came out from his mouth were, "I thought you had been expelled."

"No, nothing so dire as that. Just threatened with Veritaserum. Well, and an Unforgivable. But I kept coming here, as you can see."

"So did I. I could never find you."

"I would say it was odd, but I actually have a theory. Well, Professor Dumbledore has it, actually. I thought he was talking about something else at the time."

"You told Professor Dumbledore about the garden?"

"No, but that doesn't really mean anything, does it?"

"Omniscience."

"Don't be silly. Legilimency, perhaps, along with the perks of being Hogwarts Headmaster. The point is, judging by what he said, the window for the time travel here must be that - from Lughnasadh to Samhain."

"Celtic rituals?"

"Yes, you see, Lughnasadh marks the beginning of the harvest and Samhain its end."

"There are no crops here. Why just during that time?"

"Well, your guess is as good as mine. And the last time we met was just before Halloween, wasn't it? But then, it's Hogwarts. We may never know for certain. Why is there a room that comes and goes?"

"There's a room that comes and goes?"

"Precisely."

As the subject died, he felt her gaze bear down on his face and felt the urge to cover it. But then she was closing the distance between them, stopping just short of touching. As she skimmed her fingers over the raised, still angry-red skin, tracing each and every line, Remus had to force himself to be still. To not recoil from her touch and hide.

There was a twinge of sorrow in her voice when she spoke, "I know, Remus. I've always had."

"Know what?" A shot of panic ran through his body and he tried to force the lies and excuses out of his mouth with no success. Oblivious to his struggle, Hermione raised herself on her tiptoes and closed the remaining distance, kissing the scars and causing his heart to go into overdrive, the feeling of her lips akin to the texture of a rose petal. Then, in an even more baffling move, she lowered herself just a little, and touched her lips to his, holding them captive under the slightest of brushes. He wanted to draw breath, to gasp and take in her scent along with the hint of her taste, but he held himself as still as possible, shoulder and arms and legs rigid so they wouldn't melt and meld to her because, if they did, there was no scenario in which they would ever split again, his body would be hers the way his heart already was.

When she lowered her feet fully to the ground, she spoke again, "That you're a werewolf. And that I love you anyway."

His ears plugged up with the rush and pounding of his blood, and he had to struggle to hear what she said next.

"I didn't know when you had gotten them. But they're not new to me, nor is the wolf. I have known all along, Remus, have seen it, too. I know far more than I let on, under the threat of disrupting my future." Tears sprung from her eyes at that and held fast to his hand, as though afraid he would leave. "And I apologize for what happens when I do find out about your lycanthropy. Know that it was never my intention to hurt you, not in a million years. Not in any way."

And as per usual since he had met a traveler tumbling her way through time, Remus had to take a moment to wrap his head around her words.

* * *

He had reacted far better than she anticipated. He had asked questions and shook his head quite a bit, but then it was to be expected. And before evening arrived, they had kissed once more. Then thrice more after that. And another time still, until the time came when Hermione didn't know whether her cheeks hurt from the kissing or from the permanent smile that had taken residence on her face.

Though happiness tended to be short lived as of late, and this time it was her own consciousness who destroyed it. There was something she needed to get off her chest, but there was no guarantee that once out, things would retain their soothing loveliness ever again.

Remus must have felt something was bothering her, because he turned and contemplated her face, pushing a lock of hair from it and trapping it behind her ear. Or perhaps it was her guilt that made her think so, and he was just being sweet. Either way, she decided to break the silence, steeling herself and introducing some distance between them, just in case.

"There's something I wanted to ask you. Well, not exactly ask, since you couldn't possibly know the answer, but... Not once these past couple of years you - the you from my time, I mean - mentioned this ever happening to me. To us."

He contemplated her words in silence for a bit. "Maybe I'm trying to keep from changing things. I wouldn't risk creating a paradox, would I?"

"No. No, you wouldn't." But perhaps, as she had thought before, that wasn't the reason at all. More than once she had wondered, as she recovered from the spell Dolohov had hit her with, if the source of his anger was not directed to the cruelness of fate, but rather at her. She surveyed his face, taking in every detail before meeting his eyes. "But I think I will."

After Sirius' death, Hermione had gone over the thought non-stop. She could tell him about Sirius. About everything now. It was nice, this little idyllic interlude they found themselves in. Yet his life was about to take a turn for an unending worse as hers might as well. The difference was that his misery she could try to prevent.

"Hermione?"

Was it madness? Absolutely. But she refused to take any part in causing him excruciating suffering when she could choose not to.

"There's a war coming, Remus."

"What? No—"

"Yes. It's right at your doorstep. Mine, too. But there are things I can do."

That was met by silence, and she could see Remus trying to process what she had told him. When he spoke, there was a tremor to his voice, "You want to prevent it?"

"The war? No. I would if I could, but it's too big a change and it likely wouldn't work. Some things can be altered, though."

His eyes met hers, unyielding. "And whom will it save?"

"You, Remus. It'll save you."

"You told me I hadn't died."

"You haven't."

"Then—"

"Just because you lived—Just because you lived it doesn't mean you haven't lost anyone. You had everything, _everyone_ , taken from you. You lose them all. And I can't, I can't let it. Others will be helped by this, too, friends of mine. But no one else lost everything the way you did. The way you would. I've thought about it. I've changed the past before, when I had the time-turner, and this will be trickier, infinitely more so, but… As long as my perceptions of reality remain the same, it will be fine. It has to be."

"I don't follow. Not sure I can, to be honest."

"It's a small part of it, but when I changed the past, I saved a Hippogriff's life. It belonged to a friend and had been unjustly sentenced to death, and I had seen and heard the bardiche's blade come down on its head from a distance. Except I didn't really see its head, it was just outside my range of sight. So, when things were changed, it didn't affect my perceptions, you see, because, instead of its head, the blade came down on a giant pumpkin. So, if you manage to change things, and everything goes to plan, it will be as if..."

"Nothing's changed."

"Yet _everything_ will."

"And if things don't go according to plan?"

Hermione pushed her chin forward and stared him in the eye. "You're worth the risk. We'll hope for the best, but if the worst takes place... I won't regret anything."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry I'm late, but hope you enjoyed!!!!
> 
> *smiles and winks*
> 
> Butterbeer to everyone who left kudos, to Natmom, Jennieb89, MurderK1tten, Sparkybish, Angiepants531, Batsh1tCrazy, hiboudeluxe, ybriKnoswaD, CatherinaWolf, Kaarina_Riddle, grungyspacepirate, fitmypoems_likeaperfrhyme, krankykittie, and SwansMate4Life for the comments! And to MidianDawn, sln1987, Jennieb89, and Aria_09 for bookmarking the story!
> 
> You're all amazing, have I mentioned?


	12. Chapter 12

**Falling Leaves**

**Disclaimer:** All publicly recognizable characters, settings, etc. are the property of their respective owners. The original characters and plot are the property of the author. The author is in no way associated with the owners, creators, or producers of any media franchise. No copyright infringement is intended.

* * *

_September 1996_

The delicate yet unfrivolous teacup stopped midway to Professor McGonagall's lips. The older witch scrutinized Hermione's face over the rim of her oval spectacles, her wrinkled yet graceful right hand poised in the air as they sat on opposite sides of her office desk. The same office that was covered in red carpeting, wallpaper, and curtains – even though Hermione strongly suspected the Professor's favorite color was, in fact, green – and into which Hermione had stepped many a time before to request extra assignments, far more so than any other student at Hogwarts that didn't get _sent_ there, if she wasn't mistaken. It was also the one where Hermione had received both her first window of access and the means to tamper with the past, regardless of how near to the present in comparison it had been, all from the very hand which had frozen at her question. Not once, in all these years, had the room been so awash in oppressive silence.

"Excuse me?"

Hermione flinched despite the fact that those two words were not shouted nor did they bleed malice or wrath of any sort. In the end, it was the pitch of disbelief mingled with vexation imbued in the words that did it, running over her body like a bolt of electricity.

The thing was, she should have expected it.

Hermione lowered her own cup, afraid the persistent tremble of her hands would draw her Head of House's attention if she kept hold of it - that is, if she hadn't slushed some of its contents already. It wasn't fear that caused the tremor, but there was a peculiar kind of trepidation that overtook her as though, if she didn't keep her lips as still and shut as possible, her mouth would run off and she might unwittingly unveil a secret, confess to things the same way a young child would do under the stern gaze of a parent, perhaps even akin to the adorable manner they did so, spouting the unbidden confession as a denial. Except Hermione doubted very much that a blurted out 'I'm not wrecking time' on her part would ever be received with a positive, humorous response. Yet keeping her lips sealed was hardly the solution since she owed the Professor an explanation of sorts, and so Hermione tried her best not to let slip any admissions of guilt.

Instead, she wrung her hands, hoping the action would divert the manic voice in her head that kept telling her to apologize and _flee_. "I know it's terribly invasive, Professor, but would you mind so very much telling me about it?"

The befuddlement remained, plain on the slackness of the Professor's mouth, and in the backward cocking of her head, her chin tilted so low that it threatened to topple the hat on the top of her head.

"Of all the questions, I never expected you to ask me such a thing. The war I would understand, it's no use to believe you and your friends are perfectly safe within the walls of this castle when you've proven time and again that your abilities to seek trouble far outweigh ours to keep you from it. After the incident before the summer holidays, that was made abundantly clear. And as far as I'm concerned, any knowledge regarding it might prove useful to you." Professor McGonagall said, lowering her teacup to its saucers as well. "But _love_ , Miss Granger?"

"Well, yes, Professor. You see, I happen to find myself in a predicament. There's this Gryffindor..." And that wasn't even a deception - there _was_ a Gryffindor, after all, that she was in love with. Just as she happened to also find herself in a predicament that related to said Gryffindor - several at this point, if you added the fact that she was involved with someone from the past whose adult version was around somewhere doing God knew what on top of wishing to change the past for his, or rather their, sake. Hence a Gryffindor and a predicament. Beneath that excuse, however, her motives had little to do with asking for the romantic advice of her favorite Professor.

Her words drew a small smile from Professor McGonagall. "Only you would call being in love a predicament, my dear. But as much of a fine young man Mr. Weasley might be, I don't believe you're well suited for each other."

Hermione had been so prepared to argue and defend her relationship with Remus to anyone that might put it into question that she forgot for a moment that she had never revealed his name and that that wasn't her goal. Her lips had already parted when the actual words registered in her mind. "What? Oh, it's not Ron! It's… It's someone else."

"Ah. Well, go on, ask whatever it is that you wished to."

And her next question could be either very well received or very poorly so. And faced with it, Hermione wished she had been the one to win the vial of Felix Felicis instead of Harry during the last Potions class. A little liquid luck - or maybe even some liquid courage - wouldn't go amiss. "Have you ever been in love, Professor?"

"I may be old, Miss Granger, but I'm far from heartless."

Hermione could feel her face scrunching up, and she looked anywhere else but at the professor to try and sound the tiniest bit more eloquent. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to imply… Would you mind telling me about him?"

There was a moment of silence, during which Hermione regretted dearly her decision to enter the office this time, and while she contemplated a suitable apology and an excuse to remove herself from it, Professor McGonagall spoke. "I wouldn't do so, usually, but I've never known you to ask foolish questions. It happened a long time ago, so bear with the faulty memory of an old witch. My first love was a man called Dougal..."

Perhaps she didn't need the Felix Felicis after all.

* * *

Her self-assigned mission had proved far more daunting than Hermione had previously believed, and she was hardly one to underestimate any task. It had sounded fairly simple to claim she would change time, yet tackling an undertaking as complex as twenty years of changes was a different matter entirely. From choosing where to begin her study of the First War and the time that followed it until the battle at the Ministry – should she opt to do it chronologically? And if so, from beginning to end or in reverse? But perhaps a nonconsecutive approach focused on the major events to then draw the connections between them and the smaller ones in between would prove more useful – and how to go about it – by the newspaper articles, bibliographical research, personal accounts, or even a combination of all three all at once – she found herself flustered by the first time when it came to learning. It was supposed to be her own safe harbor, the thing she could always rely on, and yet... Perhaps because this time her essays would involve a brittle, fiddly subject, completely leaving the realm of academic theory and mere curiosity to guide concrete action, and, adding to all this, she had no teacher to read and mark them.

Any mistake or unreliable source could ruin lives instead of merely her grades. As she mulled over her options – sometimes debating pros and cons with Remus to exhaustion as they tended to the plants in their garden – Hermione decided she needed some insight. And insight came through a conversation with a mentor, someone she hoped would clarify things while remaining unmindful of the truth.

She had heard the rumors regarding the Transfiguration Professor's love life over the years. Hermione was far too clever to believe them in their entirety, however – school gossip tended to grow outlandish and morph into a Frankenstein of truth and tale sewed together, as she knew by experience, though the accounts about the Professor's love interest dying in a Death Eater attack was much too ghastly to be invented.

After the Professor's portrayal of the facts, however, Hermione's dilemmas only grew in number. Not only was she dealing with the research and documentation methods of the matter at hand, but also with the scope of her actions. Should she endeavor to save only those that lost their lives to Voldemort and war, or should she try to prevent all the deaths?

Her conversation with Professor McGonagall was a clear example. Their chat had pointed not to one preventable death, but two. One a mere accident, while the other caused by the very thing she set out to change. Because while Dougal McGregor, a Muggle farmer that had been Minerva McGonagall's first love, had died along with his family during a Death Eater attack, Elphinstone Uruquart, the wizard she had married a long time following McGregor's death, had died of a Venomous Tentacula bite.

A bite she could prevent, as well as all the other accidents. Not to mention the deaths by illnesses she could put a stop to by giving Remus the now known cures. And for a moment she felt as though she was playing God, choosing who would get to live and whom she would let die. Or at least being faced with an ethical conundrum that couldn't possibly be less theoretical.

Ultimately, the answer to it came through both brutal honesty with herself and concern. Twenty years was too long a time and the death toll too large a number for even her to tackle, and though she wanted to save them all, she knew it to be unfeasible. Besides, she didn't wish to turn Remus' life into a hell of not-living in order to keep others from dying.

With that decision made, the other two seemed far too small to concern herself with. She would research and then decide, and change methods if the need arose. Over the course of the next few weeks, Hermione pulled everything and anything she could find about the first war. Newspaper clippings, books, Auror reports - no piece of information or possible source went undisturbed. When Harry and Ron asked her what the bloody hell she was doing - and tauntingly questioned if she was trying to catch up to Harry in Potions - she claimed to be studying Voldemort's past actions - again, not a lie, and as someone who had considered herself a liar by omission before, she was now the expert of half-truths. It also served the purpose of shutting the boys up.

As soon as she could, she ordered a custom journal from Scrivenshaft's Quill Shop imbued with as many protection and secrecy spells as they had available and keyed in only four people. Three of them who would know and be able to read every information contained in the journal, the category in which she herself was included, and someone who, in the worst-case scenarios possible - one, or all of them, dying; Hermione ceasing to exist; her assumptions about perceptions being downright wrong; or her present being completely different; and she had to remind herself to breathe or she would pass out from the enormousness of it all - would be able to either continue their work or destroy it.

And then she set out to work.

* * *

_June 18th, 1996_

He had spent all morning and most of the afternoon sitting on the edge of the bed in his room at Grimmauld Place, the yellowed, worn-out parchment in his hands as he read it one last time, time and time again. When the signal from Dumbledore came, it was followed by Sirius bursting through the door, face ashen and shoulders held in a tense manner, announcing that the children had fled the castle and gone to the Ministry and that the entire Order was being called forth. That this was finally it.

Remus rose to his feet, his body feeling as if gravity had changed or as if the years were finally taking their toll, and stopped only for one last measured breath before Apparating to central London and taking up formation beside his friends and fellow Order members, the letter left behind on top of his bedding.

There was no room for anxiety or terror, only the sort of detached clear-headedness he had mastered over the last war. But an insidious, heinous feeling soon wormed its way into his chest, bringing a coldness with it when he failed to find her wand raised in battle as Remus had expected, her face alight by the colorful spells as he had seen countless times in a past so distant it felt rather like a dream. And when, in between attacking and defending, he spotted her on the ground, when realization sank in that, while she too was fighting for her life, Hermione was warring inside her own body, battling the effects of a spell rather than a masked opponent, that feeling took hold.

That was not right. _That_ could not be happening.

And he still fought to the best of his ability. Hardened himself for the expression on Sirius' face when he crossed the arch to the World of the Unliving. Held Harry away from the Veil's call with all his might, but all of it was done to get to her. And when he did, Remus sunk to his knees beside her unconscious body, tears sliding freely down his face as he took in her injuries. As his breathing sped and his thoughts twisted and turned in a dizzy spell no wand had cast, he knew he could not wait for Dumbledore, couldn't wait for anything anymore and he gathered her in his arms and Apparated to the gates of Hogwarts.

They were wide-open as he arrived and he thought not to question why, his feet tripping over themselves and over mounds of dirt as he tried to cover as much ground as possible without jostling Hermione too much. His breaths grew harsher under the sunlight and over the distance but he forced his legs to keep advancing, to keep going until they reached the castle's walls and felt the impact of each of the staircases' steps on his sore feet until they reached the Hospital Wing at last.

He called for Poppy - howled at her, for all he knew, he certainly couldn't tell, and what difference did it make anyway, when he was laying Hermione's unmoving body onto the nearest cot? He had never before felt such an inescapable sense of wrongness and impotence in all his years. And when the Mediwitch finally came, and Hermione trashed about, he felt every bit the rabid werewolf he was.

Only when Remus watched as Madam Pomfrey raised the potion to Hermione's lips, coaxing her to take it and her eyes closed almost immediately as she sagged on the arms of the Mediwitch, did he draw breath. He couldn't help but enter the small room sectioned off by the rest by thick white curtains, the propriety he had been keeping all these years meaningless in the face of her injuries. It was only after a moment or so that he noticed they were in the same room he had occupied after the incident with Snape, and having witnessed her suffering, the white bandages covering her shoulder turning pink as her blood oozed through due to her struggling had snapped his already non-existent restraint in half, and he stood at the side of her cot, taking her hand in his and pushing her hair off her face as he had done once upon a time.

She was hurt and almost killed, and it was morbidly ironic just as much as it was unacceptable. When Madam Pomfrey had finished her diagnostic spells and finally noticed his presence there, Remus expected the usual chiding, but something in his expression must have given away his worry and despair, for she held her scolding words and laid a hand on his shoulder.

"She'll live, and likely recover with few or none aftereffects, Severus is concocting a treatment as we speak. You may stay, but no longer than thirty minutes."

In the end, she allowed him far more than that. It was only when Dumbledore came to him that Remus noticed the time. Evening had fallen, but the Headmaster of Hogwarts made no mention of it.

What he did ask was, "Are you supposed to be here?"

"I'm not." Remus had to swallow through the knot in his throat before continuing. "She wrote that we would catch a glimpse of each other, but never more than that. Something's wrong. We must have changed too much, or overlooked that part..."

And the worst thing about it was that he didn't remember. And he didn't believe he could ever forget something like this.

"I'm sorry, my boy, but have you considered that not divulging it was Miss Granger's choice? And you know the consequences if you stay." Few times over the years had Remus feeling the urge to revolt and scream at Dumbledore. Now was such a time. And Remus wanted nothing more than to scream that she would have told him - BECAUSE WHY WOULDN'T SHE? - but he knew the old wizard would take his screams as he had likely taken Harry's already, and it still wouldn't change anything. And it wasn't until Remus reached that reasoning that Dumbledore placed a hand on his back and spoke, "Come. We have plans for tonight."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And things are starting to unfold… :)
> 
> Just wanted to mention that I was blown away by the response to the last chapter, thank you!!!!
> 
> I meant to upload this chapter earlier today, but we had municipal elections today in my country, so… but it’s still Sunday here (hopefully also where you all are at).
> 
> Share your thoughts with me if you can, and I hope you enjoyed it!
> 
> Tooth Splintering Strong Mints to SwansMate4Life, NiightKiitten17, fitmypoems_likeaperfrhyme, Sparkybish, Angiepants531, hiboudeluxe, krankykittie, Kaarina_Riddle, Natmom, Nakurali, ybriKnoswaD, Jennieb89, SecretGardenParty, burungmalam, waybystarlight, and grungyspacepirate for the comments. And to Nakurali, nobody444, and lalalaursland for bookmarking the story.
> 
> You. Are. Lovely. People.


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